Bppletons' 
Gown  an£>  Gountrp 
Xibrarp 

No.  250 


THE  WIDOWER 


THE  WIDOWER 


A 'NOVEL 


BY 

W.  E.  NORRIS 

AUTHOR  OF 

MATRIMONY,  THE  DANCER  IN  YELLOW, 
A VICTIM  OF  GOOD  LUCK,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1898 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY; 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS 


I 


. N M -S' 

VIS 


COPTRIGHT,  1898, 

By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved . 


543914 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — A FRESH  DEPARTURE 1 

II. — Homeward  bound 16 

III.  — The  heir  presumptive 29 

IV.  — Tribulation 42 

V. — An  admitted  failure 56 

% 

VI. — A promise  of  success 70 

VII. — The  developed  cousins 83 

VIII. — Harry  Carew 97 

IX. — Doubtful  company Ill 

X. — Black  despair 126 

XI. — Cuckoo  diverts  her  audience  ....  138 

XII. — Budgett’s  discovery 153 

XIII.  — Perilous  sympathies 165 

XIV. — Warning 179 

XV.  — Vjs  victoribus 192 

XVI.  — Cuckoo  goes  her  own  way  ....  206 

XVII. — Councils  and  counsels 219 

XVIII. — Fitzroy  is  highly  favoured  ....  233 

XIX. — The  turning  of  the  tables  ....  247 

XX. — Flight 259 

XXI. — One  good  day 274 

XXII. — The  sacrifice  of  a pis-aller  ....  289 
XXIII. — Fitzroy  spends  a momentous  evening  . . 300 

XXIV. — Au  bord  du  lac 314 


v 


THE  WIDOWER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  March  that  Mrs.  Pen- 
nant’s long  illness  and  comparatively  short  life  ended, 
with  some  effect  of  suddenness,  at  Girgenti,  in  Sicily, 
whither  she  and  her  husband  had  betaken  themselves 
to  evade  the  rigours  of  winter.  Her  health,  to  be 
sure,  had  for  more  than  a year  been  in  such  a con- 
dition that  the  doctors  had  ceased  to  speak  of  her 
ultimate  recovery;  but  neither  the  doctors  nor  Mr. 
Pennant,  nor  the  invalid  herself,  had  supposed  that 
she  was  in  any  immediate  danger.  However,  a chill, 
the  result  of  her  own  imprudence  in  insisting  upon 
sitting  out  of  doors  after  sunset  one  fine  evening, 
brought  about  her  death  almost  before  those  around 
her  had  time  to  realize  that  she  was  dying. 

“ And  a very  good  thing,  too,”  was  Lady  Ward- 
law’s  remark  when  the  news  reached  London. 

“ My  dear  Jane!  ” remonstrated  Sir  William  from 
the  other  side  of  the  breakfast  table. 

“I  waited  until  the  servants  were  out  of  the 
room,”  said  Lady  Wardlaw. 

1 


2 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ Yes;  but  really,  you  know — poor  woman!  ” 

“ Oh,  poor  woman,  as  much  as  you  like!  But  it 
has  been  poor  James  for  a good  deal  longer  than  I 
have  liked,  and  I am  not  going  to  pretend  that  I am 
sorry  to  hear  of  his  being  set  free  at  last.  Now  per- 
haps his  life  may  begin.  When  all  is  said,  he 
has  hardly  yet  reached  the  prime  of  it,  notwithstand- 
ing these  unfortunate,  wasted  years.” 

Sir  William  lighted  a cigarette  and  gazed  out  at 
the  bare  trees  of  Berkeley  Square,  in  which  desirable 
quarter  his  town  residence  was  situated.  “ I sup- 
pose,” he  remarked  meditatively,  “ J ames  will  marry 
again.” 

Sir  William  was  a small  man,  with  thin,  dust- 
coloured  hair,  short-sighted  gray  eyes,  and  a waxed 
mustache.  In  obedience  to  a fashion  which  was  at 
that  time  just  beginning  to  be  adopted,  he  wore  a 
crimson  plush  smoking  suit,  and  most  people  would 
have  pronounced  him  at  first  sight  to  be  a somewhat 
effeminate  person.  In  reality,  he  was  stronger  and 
more  wiry  than  he  looked,  as  friends  who  had  been 
in  his  company  on  Scottish  moors  and  deer  forests 
could  have  testified.  His  age  was  a complete  puzzle 
to  all  who  were  introduced  to  him  until  they  reached 
home  and  looked  him  up  in  the  red  book,  wherein 
he  appeared  as:  “ Sir  William,  7th  bart.,  eld.  s.  of  6th 
bart.,  b.  1848,  m.  1874  Jane  Constantia,  only  dau.  of 
late  Adml.  Sir  George  Pennant,  G.  C.  B.”  Jane  Con- 
stantia, who  had  the  appearance  of  being  consider- 
ably his  junior,  was  betrayed  by  no  red  books,  since 
she  was  not  of  noble  birth;  but  she  would  willingly 
have  told  anybody  who  cared  to  know  that  she  had 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


3 


celebrated  her  thirtieth  birthday.  She  was  a lady  of 
frank,  open  countenance  and  free  speech,  already  in- 
clining toward  embonpoint , but  holding  herself  erect 
and  pleasant  to  look  upon,  with  her  fresh  complex- 
ion, her  white  teeth,  and  her  bright  brown  eyes, 
though  she  had  never  been  accounted  handsome. 

“He  must — naturally/'  she  remarked,  in  reply 
to  her  husband. 

Sir  William,  after  taking  time  for  reflection, 
didn't  quite  see  why  he  should,  unless  he  chose. 

“ Well,  situated  as  he  is,  it  is  scarcely  a question 
of  choice.  Only  the  one  child — and  she  a girl.  The 
property  is  entailed,  you  know." 

“ So  you  think  it's  his  duty  to  have  a lot  of  chil- 
dren? Well  may  you  call  him  poor  James!  If 
there  is  a luckless  being  whom  I pity  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart,  it's  a man  whose  house  is  infested 
with  squalling  brats.  Personally,  I would  rather  let 
my  property  go  to  the  Crown  than  spend  my  earthly 
existence  in  such  a premature  purgatory." 

Childless  Lady  Wardlaw  laughed.  In  days  gone 
by  she  had  sometimes  winced  a little  under  her  hus- 
band's rather  clumsy  efforts  to  console  her  for  what 
they  both  in  their  hearts  felt  to  be  a trial;  but  now 
she  did  not  dislike  to  hear  him  say  that  sort  of  thing. 
It  was  a reminder,  if  a needless  one,  of  the  solid  mu- 
tual affection  and  friendship  which  subsisted  between 
him  and  her. 

“ But,  setting  aside  all  considerations  of  worldly 
expediency,"  she  resumed,  “ one  does  wish  James 
to  have  a suitable  wife  and  a comfortable  home  of 
his  own.  How  many  years  is  it — it  can't  be  much 


/ 


4 


THE  WIDOWER. 


less  than  ten — that  he  has  been  houseless  and  home- 
less, trapesing  all  over  Europe  at  the  bidding  of  a 
wife  who  was  unsuited  to  him  in  every  possible 
way? ” 

“ I only  saw  her  once,”  observed  Sir  William 
musingly.  “ I thought  her  awfully  good-looking.” 

“ She  was  a perfectly  detestable  woman,”  said 
Lady  Wardlaw,  with  decision. 

“ Perhaps  he  didn’t  think  so.” 

“ Ah,  that  is  what  nobody  will  ever  know.” 

“Nobody  ever  will  if  you  don’t,  that’s  certain. 
I take  it  that  James  Pennant  has  just  one  intimate 
friend  in  the  world,  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  deny 
that  he  made  a wise  selection  when  he  appointed  his 
cousin  Jane  to  the  post.” 

“ He  might  have  made  a worse  one,”  Lady  Ward- 
law  agreed.  “ But  although  James  writes  to  me  on 
an  average  once  a fortnight,  he  doesn’t  tell  me  things. 
I know  no  more  than  you  do  what  he  really  thought 
of  his  Ada;  I only  suspect.” 

“ Well,  whatever  she  may  have  been,  she  is  dead 
now,”  observed  Sir  William,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
kind-hearted  of  mortals.  He  added,  after  a pause, 
“ One  must  admit  that  there  is  a certain  aptness  about 
her  demise  at  this  particular  moment.  So  long  as 
that  irreconcilable  old  man  lived,  her  gadding  about 
the  Continent  didn’t  matter;  James  was  as  well  abroad 
as  at  home.  But  Abbotswell  couldn’t  have  been  left 
standing  empty  forever,  and  this  change  seems  to 
solve  the  difficulty.  Pity  the  girl  isn’t  a boy.” 

Lady  Wardlaw  was  not  so  sure  that  it  was  a pity. 
“James  is  queer  and  reticent,  and  extraordinarily 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


5 


sensitive  under  his  impassive  exterior.  And  his  ex- 
periences of  matrimony  must  have  left  him  raw  and 
bleeding.  If  he  had  a son  and  heir,  he  might  be 
capable  of  shutting  himself  up  drearily  in  a corner 
of  that  big  house  till  the  end  of  his  days,  rather  than 
risk  a second  plunge.  Whereas,  now  that  the  duty 
of  begetting  a son  and  heir  is  so  obvious,  his  life, 
as  I say,  must  be  only  on  the  verge  of  starting.” 

“ Quite  so,”  assented  Sir  William.  “ And  who  is 
she,  if  it  isn’t  indiscreet  to  inquire?” 

Lady  Wardlaw  laughed.  “ Oh,  there  are  dozens 
of  her — half  dozens,  anyhow;  I haven’t  had  time  to 
fix  upon  any  special  one  yet.  Besides,  it  isn’t  only 
domestic  joys  that  are  his  due;  with  abilities  like  his 
he  will  have  to  become  a public  man  and  make  him- 
self heard  of  in  the  world.  I don’t  suppose  you  real- 
ize a bit  what  a bright  light  has  been  quenched  by 
that  fatal  extinguisher  of  an  Ada  ever  since  James 
Pennant  threw  himself  away  upon  her.” 

“ H’m!  He  has  no  ear  for  music,”  remarked  Sir 
William. 

“ Great  men  scarcely  ever  have,  unless  they  hap- 
pen to  be  Jews.  A few  pretend  to  be  musical,  and 
I have  watched  some  of  them  at  Eichter  concerts,  fol- 
lowing the  score  in  the  wrong  place.  Ho;  it’s  unfor- 
tunate, but  it’s  a fact,  that  statesmanship  and  artis- 
tic sensibility  don’t  go  together.” 

“ So  James  is  to  be  a statesman,  is  he?  I wish 
him  joy  of  the  job.  Likewise,  I wish  him  joy  of  the 
plain-headed  woman  who  is  destined  to  sit  at  the 
head  of  his  table.  You  mean  her  to  be  a plain- 
headed one,  Jane;  you  know  you  do.” 


6 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ I mean  her,”  Lady  Wardlaw  declared  emphatic- 
ally, “ to  be  a decent  woman  and  a good  wife.  It  is 
a great  deal  more  important  for  her  to  be  that  than  to 
be  a beauty.” 

“ Perhaps  it  is.  I wonder  whether  he  will  kick. 
Meanwhile,  it  might  be  as  well  to  avoid  allusions  to 
her  in  your  letter  of  condolence.” 

“ Good  gracious!  What  do  you  take  me  for?” 

Sir  William  opened  his  lips,  but  closed  them  again 
without  audible  response.  If  he  doubted  his  wife’s 
discretion — and  in  truth  he  did — why  should  he 
hurt  her  feelings  by  telling  her  so?  For  the  rest,  she 
was  likely  enough,  he  thought,  to  bring  her  amiable 
intentions  to  a successful  issue.  She  had  great  in- 
fluence with  James,  and  her  influence  would  be  ex- 
erted in  what,  after  all,  must  be  pronounced  the 
right  direction.  Then  he  remembered  Mrs.  Arthur 
Pennant,  with  her  boy,  who  was  at  present  heir  pre- 
sumptive to  the  Abbotswell  estate,  and  he  said  to 
himself,  “ I shouldn’t  wonder  if  we  were  to  witness 
some  ructions  over  this  business.”  Aloud,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  remarking  that,  in  any  case, 
James  Pennant  would  have  to  make  up  his  mind  to 
fresh  departures. 

At  that  selfsame  moment  James  Pennant,  stand- 
ing beside  the  open  window  of  the  hotel  at  Girgenti, 
and  staring  out  at  the  blue  sea  with  eyes  which  trans- 
mitted no  impression  of  the  prospect  before  them  to 
a preoccupied  brain,  was  in  the  act  of  contemplating 
fresh  departures.  These  evidently  had  to  be  con- 
templated; nor  was  there  very  much  doubt  as  to  the 
shape  which  they  must  assume.  Abbotswell,  any- 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


7 


how — the  home  of  his  boyhood,  unvisited  by  him 
(owing  to  adverse  circumstances)  for  a matter  of  ten 
years  past  and,  since  his  father’s  death  a twelvemonth 
back,  his  own  property — must  of  course  be  henceforth 
his  abode.  Ada  would  never  have  consented  to  live 
at  Abbotswell — had,  indeed,  declared  unequivocally 
that,  rather  tjian  do  that,  she  would  set  up  a separate 
establishment  abroad.  But  Ada,  poor  soul,  lay  silent 
in  a corner  of  the  sunny  cemetery,  where  the  English 
chaplain  had  read  the  burial  service  over  her  coffin 
some  days  ago;  so  that  there  was  no  longer  a question 
of  her  living  anywhere,  nor  anything  to  prevent  an 
expatriated  country  gentleman  from  responding  to 
the  call  of  duty  as  soon  as  he  liked. 

Only  a month,  or  even  a fortnight,  earlier  James 
would  have  said  without  hesitation  that  he  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  obey  that  call,  desired  nothing 
more  ardently  than  to  turn  his  back  forever  upon  the 
wandering  life  of  which  he  had  been  made  so  heartily 
sick;  but  now  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  give  effect  to 
his  wishes,  he  felt  a little  less  sure  of  them.  Eng- 
lish country  life,  under  gray  skies,  with  its  accom- 
paniment of  hunting,  shooting,  rent  audits,  quarter 
sessions,  dinners  with  dull  neighbours,  and  so  forth — 
all  this  did  not  seem  to  smile  upon  him,  somehow. 
Perhaps  his  long  exile  had  unfitted  him  for  such 
pursuits;  perhaps  he  had  certain  rather  absurd  com- 
punctions, as  though,  by  yielding  to  the  inevitable, 
he  would  be  guilty  of  a species  of  treachery  to  his 
dead  wife.  His  dead  wife  had  been  more  than  once 
guilty  of  treachery — or  something  closely  resembling 
it — to  him;  but  that  was  a reflection  upon  which  he 


8 


THE  WIDOWER. 


did  not  care  to  dwell.  He  had  buried  with  her  the 
memory  of  her  ceaseless  flirtations,  of  the  incipient 
scandals  which  he  had  been  forced  to  check  by  flit- 
ting from  one  European  capital  or  watering  place  to 
another,  of  her  caprices  and  extravagances,  of  the 
miserable,  ignoble  bickerings  which  even  his  imper- 
turbable self-control  had  not  wholly  availed  to  ob- 
viate; he  preferred  to  remember  the  early  days  of 
their  married  life,  when  they  had  been  perfectly 
happy  together  (knowing  so  little  of  one  another!), 
and  he  said  to  himself  remorsefully  that  if  he  had  not 
been  what  he  was,  Ada  would  doubtless  have  been 
very  different  from  what  she  had  become. 

But  neither  philosophy,  nor  religion,  nor  sage 
resolutions,  nor  any  other  agency  known  to  man  can 
prevent  a single  one  of  us  from  being  what  he  is,  and 
if  Mrs.  Pennant  could  have  returned  from  the  dead, 
the  old  estrangement,  the  old  subdued  antagonism, 
all  the  old  troubles  would  speedily  have  returned 
also.  James  knew  it,  and  that  knowledge  added 
something  to  the  poignancy  of  a regret  wdiich  was  not 
the  less  genuine  because  it  had  already  entered  upon 
a conflict  with  relief  in  which  it  was  sure  to  be 
worsted. 

“ I am  a brute!  ” he  exclaimed.  “ I was  hard  to 
her  while  she  lived,  and  I don’t  know  that  I am 
not  going  to  be  even  harder  to  her  now  that  she  is 
gone.  I suppose  the  truth  is  that  I dislike  women 
too  much  to  judge  them  fairly.  I wonder  whether 
that  is  because  I understand  them  or  because  I 
don’t.” 

If  he  did  not  understand  them  particularly  well, 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


9 


the  fault  was  scarcely  his.  With  certain  failings  ap- 
pertaining to  their  sex  he  had  been  rendered  pain- 
fully familiar,  while  the  countervailing  merits  which 
every  impartial  observer  must  acknowledge  had  not 
chanced  to  be  conspicuously  brought  under  his  no- 
tice. A man  is,  and  must  be,  the  creature  of  his  ex- 
perience, and  James  Pennant’s  unfortunate  experi- 
ence pointed  to  the  conclusion  that  women  have  little 
sense  of  honour  or  justice,  little  or  no  regard  for 
truth.  There  was  Jane  Wardlaw,  to  be  sure — but 
no  rule  is  without  exceptions. 

Well,  be  the  other  sex  what  it  might,  his  own,  at 
all  events,  could  not  pretend  to  ignore  certain  ele- 
mentary obligations,  and  it  is  the  first  duty  of  every 
gentleman  to  keep  his  word.  Ada,  just  before  her 
death,  had  stretched  out  her  wasted  arms  and  drawn 
his  head  down  to  her.  “ James,”  she  had  gasped, 
“the  child!”  And,  understanding  very  well  the 
scared,  imploring  look  in  her  eyes,  and  all  that  her 
labouring  breath  could  not  utter,  he  had  answered, 
“Yes;  I promise.  Cuckoo  shall  not  suffer  in  any 
way  that  I have  it  in  my  power  to  prevent.” 

He  disliked  that  nickname  of  Cuckoo,  which 
Ada  had  bestowed  upon  the  little  girl — there  had 
been  so  many  things  which  he  had  disliked  and  his 
wife  had  liked!  But  he  was  loyally  determined  to 
maintain  it;  determined  also  to  replace  to  the  best  of 
his  ability  that  irreplaceable  endowment — a mother’s 
love  and  care.  He  rang  the  bell  and  told  the  waiter 
who  answered  it  to  send  the  young  lady  to  him. 
He  had  scarcely  seen  her  since  the  funeral. 

At  the  expiration  of  five  minutes  or  so  the  door 


10 


THE  WIDOWER. 


opened  and  in  trotted  a small  person,  smothered 
in  black  crape,  with  closely  cropped  brown  hair,  a 
turned-up  nose,  and  eyes  of  remarkable  size  and  bril- 
liancy. She  had  the  air  of  being  tempted  to  break 
into  smiles,  but  conscious  that  decency  forbade  her 
to  yield  to  the  temptation.  Advancing  quickly 
toward  the  spare,  clean-shaven  man  who  had  now 
seated  himself  beside  a writing  table,  she  took  posses- 
sion of  his  hand  and  began: 

“ Father,  you  must  not  grieve  any  more  for  moth- 
er, because  she  has  gone  to  heaven,  which  is  much 
better  for  her  than  being  alive  and  ill;  and — and  you 
have  me.” 

J ames  lifted  the  child  up  and  placed  her  upon  his 
knee.  “ Who  told  you  to  say  that,  Cuckoo?”  he 
asked. 

She  replied  unhesitatingly,  “ Budgie.  Didn’t  I 
say  it  right?  ” 

“ Quite  right;  only  in  future  I should  like  you 
to  say  just  what  is  in  your  own  mind,  not  what 
Budgett  or  anybody  else  may  consider  appropriate.” 

Cuckoo  probably  did  not  know  the  meaning  of 
the  word  appropriate,  but  she  was  glad  of  the  per- 
mission to  state  what  was  in  her  own  mind,  and  she 
lost  no  time  in  profiting  by  it. 

“ Mayn’t  Budgie  and  me  go  down  to  the  beach 
again  now?”  she  asked,  “and  mayn’t  I have  the 
dolls  out?  Wre’ve  put  them  all  in  mourning.” 

“Of  course,”  answered  James,  “why  should  you 
stay  indoors?  ” 

The  child  had  cried  bitterly,  and  had  been  very 
sorry,  and  was  now  consoled;  it  did  not  follow  that 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


11 


she  was  heartless.  Assuming  a child’s  day  to  be 
equivalent  to  one  of  our  weeks — which  is  really  a 
moderate  enough  computation — the  time  had  doubt- 
less come  for  Cuckoo  to  do  as  we  must  all  needs  do 
when  the  first  sharpness  of  a bereavement  has  worn 
off,  and  pick  up  the  dropped  thread  of  actual  exist- 
ence once  more.  But  he  had  one  or  two  things  to 
say  to  her  before  he  let  her  go,  and  he  tried  to  say 
them,  though  speech  of  that  kind  never  came  very 
easily  to  him.  He  wanted  Cuckoo  to  understand  that 
since  he  and  she  had  now  only  one  another  in  the 
world,  they  must  be  closer  and  more  confidential 
friends  than  they  had  hitherto  been;  he  wanted  to 
make  it  clear  that,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  he  would 
henceforth  be  a mother  as  well  as  a father  to  her; 
above  all,  he  wanted  to  impress  upon  the  child  that 
she  must  never  be  afraid  of  him.  That  she  had 
been  afraid  of  him  he  was  well  aware;  many  people 
were  so,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  being  considered 
formidable,  though  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  had 
done  to  earn  the  reputation. 

Cuckoo  could  have  told  him.  While  she  sat  on 
his  knee,  playing  with  his  watch  chain  and  studying, 
at  unwontedly  close  quarters,  his  clear,  refined  fea- 
tures (James  Pennant  had  been,  and  still  was,  a hand- 
some man — black  haired,  gray  eyed,  with  firm  lips, 
which  had  never  been  concealed  by  a mustache,  and 
a slightly  prominent  chin),  she  may  have  been  think- 
ing to  herself  that  her  father’s  loquacity  was  some- 
thing quite  new.  It  was  his  habitual  silence  that 
rendered  him  terrible — that  and  the  impossibility  of 

ever  making  him  lose  either  his  patience  or  his  tem- 
2 


12 


THE  WIDOWER. 


per.  Whether  she  appreciated  much  of  the  inten- 
tion of  his  discourse  may  be  doubted;  but  she  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck  presently  and  kissed  him, 
taking  advantage  of  that  tender  attitude  to  whisper 
in  his  ear,  “ Father,  isn’t  it  wrong  for  people  whose 
wives  die  to  marry  somebody  else?” 

James  smiled.  “ Budgett  again?  ” said  he.  “ No , 
my  dear,  it  isn’t  wrong;  but  it  is  often  rather  foolish. 
As  for  me,  I gave  up  being  foolish  a great  many 
years  ago,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear.  Now  run  away, 
with  your  dolls,  but  don’t  stay  out  after  the  sun  has 
gone  down.”  He  added,  as  an  afterthought,  “ By 
the  way,  when  you  come  in  you  might  tell  Budgett 
that  I should  like  to  speak  to  her  for  a few  minutes.” 

Budgett  lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept  aloud  on 
receiving  the  above  message.  She  had  been  the  late 
Mrs.  Pennant’s  confidential  maid;  her  ostensible  oc- 
cupation was  gone;  she  suspected  that  her  master 
had  no  great  liking  for  her,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
her  more  probable  than  that  she  was  about  to  be 
given  a formal  intimation  of  his  ability  to  dispense 
with  her  future  services.  Cuckoo,  moved  by  the 
woman’s  distress,  roared  in  sympathy,  declaring  that 
if  her  dear  Budgie  were  to  be  sent  away  she  would 
go  too;  but  Mr.  Pennant,  it  subsequently  appeared, 
had  no  such  fell  intentions  as  were  imputed  to  him. 
When  Budgett,  red  in  the  face  and  swollen  as  to 
the  eyelids,  presented  herself,  he  made  haste  to  allay 
the  fears  which  he  divined. 

“ I have  decided,”  said  he,  “ that  it  will  not  be 
necessary  for  you  to  leave  us,  Budgett,  unless  you 
wish  to  do  so.  Miss  Cuckoo  hardly  requires  a nurse 


A FRESn  DEPARTURE. 


13 


now  and  will,  I suppose,  require  a maid  before  very 
long.  Meanwhile,  as  a sort  of  personal  attend- 
ant  ” 

“ I could  not  think  of  leaving  the  dear  child, 
sir,”  interrupted  Budgett,  who  was  less  afraid  of 
James  than  she  was  of  losing  her  situation,  and  who 
judged  it  best  to  lead  at  once  from  her  strong  suit. 
“ I look  upon  her  as  what  I may  term  a sacred  charge, 
bequeathed  to  my  care  almost  at  the  last  moment, 
and ” 

Mr.  Pennant  checked  her  by  raising  his  hand. 
“ I am  sure  you  will  do  your  best,  Budgett,”  he  said, 
rather  coldly.  “ Hitherto  you  have  proved  yourself 
a devoted  servant,  and  your  mistress,  I know,  had 
complete  confidence  in  you.” 

“ She  had  indeed,  sir!  She  told  me  everything, 
and,  as  she  often  used  to  say,  we  was  almost  like 
sisters.” 

James  did  not  believe  that  his  wife  had  ever  said 
anything  of  the  kind.  She  had  had  frequent  squab- 
bles with  her  maid,  for  whom  he  personally  enter- 
tained a rather  strong  feeling  of  antipathy.  But  he 
had  a rather  strong  feeling  of  antipathy  for  most  wom- 
en, and  this  one,  to  do  her  justice,  had  not  spared 
herself  in  nursing  a somewhat  querulous  invalid. 

“ So  that  I shall  be  glad  to  keep  you,”  he  con- 
tinued, “and  to  add  ten  pounds  to  your  wages  for 
the  future,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  help  that  you 
have  recently  given  us.  It  will  devolve  upon  you  to 
take  care  of  Miss  Cuckoo,  at  all  events  until  we  reach 
England,  for  I do  not  propose  to  take  the  Italian 
nurse  away  from  her  own  country.” 


14 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Budgett  thanked  him,  and  added,  “ We  are  going 
to  England,  then,  sir?  Fm  very  glad  of  that.” 

James  made  a sign  of  assent.  He  was  willing  to 
believe  that  the  woman’s  familiarity  was  not  inten- 
tionally offensive.  She  was  not  a well-trained  serv- 
ant, this  rather  impudent-looking  little  person,  with 
the  sallow  complexion  and  the  exaggerated  coiffure ; 
hut  his  wife  had,  for  some  reason  or  other,  been  fond 
of  her,  and  she  appeared  also  to  have  won  the  child’s 
affections.  He  was  about  to  terminate  the  audience 
by  saying  “ That  is  all,”  when  Budgett  resumed: 

“ And  I was  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  there  is  no 
more  bills  to  come  in — not  as  she  could  call  to  mind. 
But  she  never  had  any  head  for  figures,  poor  dear!” 

James  made  no  reply;  but  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
gazed  steadily  at  the  speaker,  who  found  herself  out- 
side the  door  before  she  knew  where  she  was.  Then 
he  reverted  to  the  occupation  from  which  he  had 
been  turned  aside  by  her  entrance,  and  which  chanced 
to  be  precisely  that  of  examining  Ada’s  unpaid  bills. 
In  spite  of  the  assurance  just  conveyed  to  him,  he 
knew  that  there  would  be  more  of  them.  It  did  not 
matter,  now  that  he  was  well  off,  although  it  had  mat- 
tered once,  and  trouble  had  been  the  result  of  by- 
gone extravagances  and  concealments. 

Did  the  mass  of  letters,  addressed  to  the  late  Mrs. 
Pennant,  which  it  was  likewise  his  unpleasant  duty 
to  examine  before  destroying,  matter?  Apparently 
he  did  not  think  so,  for  he  tore  them  to  pieces  after 
a mere  glance  at  their  opening  and  concluding  words. 
How,  since  those  words  unmistakably  proved  a large 
portion  of  them  to  be  love  letters,  it  will  be  perceived 


A FRESH  DEPARTURE. 


15 


that  James  must  either  have  been  an  unusually  com- 
plaisant husband  or  a man  whose  rigid  sense  of 
honour  would  not  permit  him  to  read  what  had  not 
been  meant  for  his  eyes.  The  late  Mrs.  Pennant  had 
had  numerous  charges  to  bring  against  him;  but 
never  in  her  life  had  it  occurred  to  her  to  accuse 
him  of  being  complaisant. 


CHAPTEE  II. 


J 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

After  all,  James  Pennant  did  not  at  once  make 
for  England.  It  was  kind  of  Jane  Wardlaw  to  be  so 
eager  for  his  return  and  to  write  him  such  sympa- 
thizing letters  upon  the  subject;  but  he  felt  hardly 
ready  yet  even  for  Jane,  and  certainly  not  ready  for 
Abbotswell,  which,  having  stood  empty  for  upward 
of  a twelvemonth,  might  surely  be  left  empty  a little 
longer  without  detriment  to  anybody’s  interests.  He 
wanted  time  to  accustom  and  adjust  himself  to  the 
completely  altered  conditions  of  life  which  he  must 
soon  face,  and  he  did  not  want — well,  in  plain  words, 
he  did  not  want  to  be  bothered. 

He  had  been  terribly  bothered  during  the  years 
that  were  now  over  and  done  with;  so  much  so  that 
he  almost  doubted  whether  he  would  be  able  to  care 
for  anything  in  the  future,  except  peace  and  quiet- 
ness. He  was  in  his  thirty-fourth  year,  and  as  likely 
as  not  to  live  for  another  thirty-four  years,  so  that 
misgivings  of  that  kind  were  palpably  opposed  to 
nature  and  common  sense.  Yet  nothing  could  be 
more  certain  than  that  he  would  never  be  young 
again.  If  he  had  not  wasted  his  whole  life,  he  had 
at  least  thrown  away  that  portion  of  it  in  which 
16 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


17 


alone  a career  can  be  initiated — a process  which  had, 
moreover,  deprived  him  of  all  wish  for  a prominent 
career.  Over  and  done  with,  like  the  years  which 
had  made  an  old  man  of  him,  were  ambition,  curios- 
ity, the  healthy,  legitimate  desire  to  win  in  the  race 
of  earthly  existence,  without  which  it  is  hardly  worth 
anybody’s  while  to  have  been  born.  It  w^as  a pity, 
of  course,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  The  mar- 
riage which  his  strait-laced  old  father  could  never  be 
induced  to  condone  (for  in  truth  poor  Mrs.  James 
Pennant  had  not  been  quite  a lady  in  birth,  nor  at 
all  a good  imitation  of  a lady  in  appearance  and  con- 
duct) would  doubtless  have  proved  fatal  to  him  even 
if  it  had  turned  out  happily;  and  it  had  not  turned 
out  happily.  In  his  silent,  uncomplaining  way,  J ames 
had  borne  with  Ada,  remonstrating  only  when  it  be- 
came absolutely  necessary  to  do  so,  complying  as  far 
as  possible  with  her  whims  and  caprices,  converting 
himself  into  a useless,  ignoble  loafer  because  she 
averred  that  neither  her  health  nor  her  spirits  could 
hold  out  against  residence  in  England;  but  the  whole 
thing  had  broken  his  heart,  and  it  is  not  at  the  age 
of  four  and  thirty  that  a broken-hearted  man  can 
begin  all  over  again. 

However,  the  melancholy  wisdom  and  experience 
which  he  had  acquired  might  yet  be  of  service  to 
somebody  else.  In  fact,  the  one  important  thing 
seemed  to  him  to  be  that  his  wisdom  and  experience 
should  be  thus  utilized,  and  that  Cuckoo  should  be 
trained  to  become — he  did  not  say  to  himself — as  un- 
like her  mother  as  possible;  but  he  did  say  that  he 
wanted  her  to  grow  up  unlike  the  generality  of 


18 


THE  WIDOWER. 


women.  Hitherto  he  had  seen  and  known  surpris- 
ingly little  of  the  child,  for  Ada’s  queer,  jealous  tem- 
perament had  always  taken  umbrage  at  any  attempt 
on  his  part  to  share  in  what  she  regarded  as  exclu- 
sively her  own;  but  now  he  resolved  that  there  should 
be  a total  change  in  that  respect.  Circumstances 
were  propitious,  and  he  could  easily  devote  a few 
weeks,  or  even  months,  to  making  friends  with  one 
who  must  henceforth  be  his  dearest  friend  and  his 
sole  absorbing  interest. 

So,  instead  of  going  straight  home,  he  dawdled 
slowly  through  Italy,  halting  at  Naples,  Rome,  and 
Florence,  and  settling  down  at  length,  on  the  advent 
of  warm  weather,  at  an  hotel  on  the  Lago  Maggiore, 
where,  at  that  early  season  of  the  year,  he  was  in  little 
danger  of  being  annoyed  by  encounters  with  acquaint- 
ances. There  was,  happily,  no  difficulty  about  making 
friends  with  Cuckoo,  who  was  then — and  indeed  she 
has  never,  up  to  this  present  moment,  been  anything 
else — the  easiest  little  person  in  the  world  to  get  on 
with.  James  Pennant,  who  was  by  no  means  easy  to 
get  on  with,  soon  found  himself  adoring  her,  such 
capital  company  was  she,  so  winning  were  her  ways, 
and  so  readily  did  she  seem  to  fall  in  with  the  ideas 
which  he  strove  to  inculcate.  Of  these  the  chief  and 
all-important  one  was,  that  it  is  a most  disgraceful 
thing — an  offence  of  which  no  gentleman  can  possi- 
bly be  guilty — to  tell  a lie,  and  that  what  is  usually 
qualified  by  the  mild  term  of  “ exaggeration  ” is  in 
reality  neither  more  nor  less  than  falsehood.  Cer- 
tain symptoms  of  a somewhat  exuberant  imagination 
on  the  child’s  part  caused  J ames  to  insist  very  strong- 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


19 


ly  upon  that  point,  and  she  appeared  to  be  duly  im- 
pressed by  what  he  said. 

“ I suppose  grown-up  people  never  tell  lies,  do 
they,  father?”  she  asked  one  day. 

James  was  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  reply  that  many 
of  them  did. 

“But  not  gentlemen?”  said  Cuckoo,  interroga- 
tively. 

“ No,  not  gentlemen.  If  I were  to  tell  a lie  I 
could  not  expect  to  be  considered  a gentleman  any 
longer.” 

“ Well,”  observed  Cuckoo,  with  a meditative  sigh, 
“ Budgie  isn’t  a gentleman.  She  says  she  is  a lady; 
but ” 

“ Then  she  says  what  is  not  the  case,  and  it  is 
very  silly  of  her  to  do  so.” 

Budgett,  it  presently  transpired,  had  been  mak- 
ing numerous  statements  which  were  not  only  silly, 
but  palpably  apocryphal.  It  did  not,  for  instance, 
seem  altogether  probable,  even  to  the  unsuspecting 
faith  of  childhood,  that  she  was  the  scion  of  an  an- 
cient family,  reduced,  through  pecuniary  misfor- 
tunes for  which  that  family  were  in  no  way  to  blame, 
to  her  present  position  of  domestic  servitude;  nor 
was  it  quite  easy  to  believe  that  in  her  last  place  she 
had  always  been  treated  as  a friend,  not  as  a lady’s 
maid,  accompanying  her  mistress  on  daily  drives  in 
a “beautiful  open  carriage  and  pair”  and  sitting 
down  to  dinner  with  her  every  evening;  nor,  again, 
was  that  story  of  her  having  refused  repeated  offers 
of  marriage  from  “ some  of  the  highest  in  the  land  ” 
of  a nature  to  command  ready  and  implicit  credence. 


20 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ But  I love  her,  all  the  same,”  Cuckoo  wound  up 
by  declaring  emphatically. 

James,  who  disliked  the  woman,  yet  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  served  his  wife  faithfully  and 
was  still  performing  her  duties  with  regard  to  the 
superintendence  of  Cuckoo’s  health  and  wardrobe 
in  a manner  which  claimed  his  gratitude,  was 
fain  to  reply  that  it  is  permissible  to  love  even 
liars. 

“ Especially  when  they  aren’t  gentlemen,  or  even 
ladies,”  pleaded  Cuckoo.  She  added,  after  a mo- 
ment, “And  when  they  are  so  amusing!” 

James  laughed,  and  Cuckoo  rubbed  her  hands. 
If  Budgett  amused  her,  she  had  discovered  that  she 
possessed  the  power  of  sometimes  amusing  her  father, 
and  this  discovery  was  a delightful  one  to  her.  The 
grave,  taciturn  man,  whose  smiles,  ever  since  she 
could  remember  him,  had  been  so  exceedingly  rare, 
and  who,  as  she  had  always  been  warned,  was  no 
lover  of  children,  could  unbend,  it  seemed,  upon  oc- 
casion. He  was  even  capable  of  a certain  mischiev- 
ous boyishness,  as  when  he  took  her  out  on  the  lake, 
instructed  her  in  the  manipulation  of  an  oar,  and 
was  overwhelmed  with  merriment  at  the  crabs  which 
she  caught.  Moreover,  her  comments  upon  men, 
women,  and  things,  together  with  her  imitations  of 
Budgett  and  of  sundry  sojourners  in  the  hotel  who 
had  spoken  to  her  (she  was  an  excellent  mimic  and 
had  a precocious  sense  of  humour),  evidently  tickled 
him.  All  of  which  was  most  flattering  and  satis- 
factory. 

“I  am  not  afraid  of  father,”  Cuckoo  boastfully 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


21 


informed  her  personal  attendant,  who  hastened  to 
reply: 

“ Well,  Fm  sure  Vm  not — though  there’s  many 
as  would  be.” 

But  Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ Oh,  yes,  you  are, 
Budgie,”  she  returned.  “ When  he  looks  at  you  you 
run  away,  instead  of  getting  up  on  his  knee,  as 
I do.” 

Budgett  explained  that  at  her  age  it  would  be 
unbecoming  to  resort  to  the  method  of  ingratiation 
alluded  to.  “ And  you  mustn’t  expect  this  to  go  on 
either,  my  dear,”  she  added.  “ When  we  are  in  Eng- 
land your  papa  will  have  other  things  to  do  than  to 
give  up  his  time  to  little  girls,  and  other  people  to 
talk  to.  For  the  present,  it  has  to  be  you  or  nobody; 
so  you  had  best  not  take  it  into  your  head  that  he 
can’t  get  on  without  you.” 

Appearances,  nevertheless,  seemed  to  point  to  the 
permanence  of  Cuckoo’s  conquest.  James  himself 
was  a little  surprised  and  puzzled  by  the  hold  that 
the  child  had  taken  of  him.  “ She  might  so  easily 
have  been  a mere  burden  and  a nuisance,  as  well  as 
an  anxiety,”  was  what  he  thought.  “ I suppose  I 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  that  I feel  no  temptation 
to  regard  her  in  that  way.” 

He  certainly  was  not  tempted  toward  sentiments 
which  most  people  would  have  pronounced  unnatu- 
ral, yet  which  would  have  struck  those  acquainted 
with  his  history  (had  there  been  any  such)  as  by  no 
means  inexplicable.  Pending  the  engagement  of  the 
governess,  whom  he  foresaw  to  be  an  unpleasant 
necessity,  he  began  giving  the  child  daily  lessons. 


22 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  found  her  an  apt  and  intelligent,  though  des- 
perately inattentive,  pupil.  He,  on  his  side,  was  the 
most  patient  and  long-suffering  of  teachers,  never 
uttering  a sharp  word,  in  spite  of  the  provocation 
which  was  undoubtedly  given  him  at  times.  In 
after  years  Cuckoo  remembered  that,  and  the  mem- 
ory always  brought  tears  into  her  eyes.  In  after 
years,  also,  James,  recalling  that  quiet  time — the 
lesson  hours,  when  Cuckoo  had  been  wont  to  edge 
up  so  close  to  him  that  her  curly  head  generally 
ended  by  laying  itself  down  on  his  shoulder;  the 
warm  evenings  which  were  usually  spent  in  a boat, 
he  lazily  sculling,  and  the  child  erratically  steering; 
the  scent  of  the  orange  flowers  blown  across  the  still 
water  from  the  Isola  Madre;  the  snowy,  rosy  Alps 
in  the  distance,  beyond  which  Destiny  lay  in  wait 
for  a pair  of  recalcitrant  victims — used  to  say  to 
himself  that  those,  after  all,  had  been  the  very  best 
days  of  his  life.  Perhaps  in  truth  they  were,  though 
he  forgot,  no  doubt,  the  anxieties,  uncertainties,  and 
misgivings  with  regard  to  the  near  future  which 
helped  to  prevent  them,  while  they  lasted,  from  be- 
ing so  very  unlike  other  days. 

Anyho^v,  he  found  excuses  to  protract  them  as 
long  as  wras  possible — long  enough  for  the  avoidance 
of  that  sojourn  in  London  which  Jane  Ward  law 
urged  upon  him,  and  v'hich  it  wTas  his  desire  to  shirk. 
Not  until  the  middle  of  July  did  Cuckoo’s  eager 
eyes  behold  the  white  cliffs  of  Kent,  and  by  the 
middle  of  July  everybody  who  is  not  so  unfortunate 
as  to  be  a member  of  the  House  of  Commons  must 
admit  that  it  is  high  time  to  go  dovrn  to  the  country. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


23 


James  Pennant  made  straight  for  Wiltshire,  and  on 
a fine  starry  night  stepped  once  more  over  the 
threshold  of  the  old  home  which  for  upward  of  ten 
years  he  had  been  too  proud  to  cross.  The  doors 
of  Abbotswell  had,  during  his  father’s  lifetime,  been 
rigorously  closed  against  his  wife,  and  he  had  re- 
fused to  visit  his  father  alone,  preferring  that  such 
meetings  between  them  as  had  from  time  to  time 
been  found  necessary  should  take  place  elsewhere. 

By  his  orders,  and  in  compliance  with  represen- 
tations which  had  reached  him,  there  had  been  some 
renewal  of  worn-out  carpets  and  curtains,  but  other- 
wise everything  was  curiously,  pathetically  un- 
changed. The  oak-panelled  entrance  hall,  hung 
with  family  portraits  of  no  great  artistic  merit,  the 
vast  dining  room,  with  its  long  table,  at  one  end  of 
which  a single  lamp  formed  a small  oasis  of  light, 
the  library  and  the  high-backed  chair  in  which  he 
remembered  that  his  mother  used,  ages  ago,  to  fall 
asleep  uncomfortably  every  evening,  the  faint,  all- 
pervading  smell  of  pot-pourri — these  things  smote 
the  heart  of  the  new  master  with  sorrow  and  some- 
thing like  remorse,  for  the  fact  is  that  he  was  a soft- 
hearted man,  though  seldom  suspected  of  being  so. 
When,  after  Cuckoo  had  been  put  to  bed,  he  sat 
down  and  lighted  a cigar  in  the  so-called  study, 
which  old  Mr.  Pennant  would  never  have  allowed  to 
be  polluted  by  tobacco  smoke,  he  realized  for  the  first 
time  the  appalling  sadness  and  solitude  of  his  father’s 
last  years.  Sunt  lachrymce  rerum!  It  had  been  no- 
body’s fault  in  particular,  but  a strictly  upright  and 
well-intentioned  old  gentleman  had  had  a somewhat 


24 


THE  WIDOWER. 


hard  sentence  passed  upon  him.  With  one  son  gone 
to  the  bad — he  had  always  spoken  of  his  eldest  son 
as  having  “ gone  to  the  bad  ” — with  another  killed 
stupidly,  out  hunting,  at  a fence  which  his  horse  had 
tried  to  rush,  without  a near  relation  or  intimate 
friend  of  either  sex,  and  with  nothing  to  do  except  to 
discharge  the  humdrum  duties  belonging  to  his  sta- 
tion as  a country  squire,  he  must  surely  often  have 
longed  for  death  and  release. 

“ And  his  successor,”  mused  James,  “ will  follow 
pretty  closely  in  his  footsteps,  I imagine.  I wonder 
who  my  successor  will  be.  Or,  rather,  I don’t  won- 
der; because,  of  course,  bar  accidents,  he  will  be 
Fitzroy.  He  certainly  won’t  be  any  son  of  mine — 
Jane  Wardlaw  may  rest  assured  of  that,  charm  she 
never  so  wisely — and  Mrs.  Arthur  may  dismiss  her 
natural  apprehensions.” 

He  resumed,  after  a moment:  “ My  father  was 
not  to  blame,  nor  was  I.  I could  not  allow  my  wife 
to  be  slighted,  and  I daresay  that  if  I had  been  in 
his  place  I could  not  have  consented  to  receive  her. 
Of  course  he  heard  things,  as  everybody  did,  and  he 
felt  bound  to  draw  the  line.  I suppose  I should 
have  done  the  same.  A man  can  but  obey  his  con- 
science. Only  I rather  wish  that  mine  would  per- 
mit me  to  let  Abbotswell.” 

But  Abbotswell  was  a beautiful  Tudor  house, 
built  upon  a slight  eminence,  from  which  broad  ter- 
races and  lawns,  gay  with  brilliant  flower  beds,  fell 
away  to  meet  the  expanse  of  well-timbered  park  be- 
yond; so  that  James,  who,  during  his  long  exile, 
had  half  forgotten  how  charming  and  how  marvel- 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


25 


lously  green  it  all  was,  recanted  his  wish  the  moment 
that  he  looked  out  of  his  bedroom  window  on  the 
following  morning  at  the  dewy  prospect. 

“ It  would  be  monstrous  to  let  the  dear  old  place 
to  strangers,”  he  ejaculated.  “ I don’t  believe  I re- 
ally want  to  let  it — though  I don’t  suppose  I shall 
ever  exactly  want  to  live  here  either.” 

Cuckoo’s  wishes  with  regard  to  that  point  were 
soon  formed  and  forcibly  expressed.  Abbotswell 
satisfied  her  soul.  After  a hurried  but  intelligent 
inspection  of  the  premises,  stables,  and  outbuildings, 
she  announced  with  conviction  that  there  was  no 
place  like  home. 

“ There’s  horses  and  cows  and  pigs  and  hens  and 
chickens,”  she  breathlessly  informed  the  owner  of 
these  treasures,  “ and  Hopkins  says  there  ought  to 
be  a pony  for  me  to  ride.  Hopkins  is  the  head 
coachman;  I’ll  take  you  to  see  him,  if  you  don’t 
know  him.” 

“ I don’t  require  the  privilege  of  an  introduction, 
thank  you,”  answered  James,  with  his  grave  smile. 
“ I’ll  see  about  the  pony.  Hopkins  is  quite  right; 
you  must  be  taught  to  ride.” 

He  meant  to  teach  her  a good  many  things  in 
addition  to  reading,  writing,  history,  and  geography; 
he  was  pleased  to  discover  that  her  tastes  inclined 
her  toward  a manner  of  life  which  he  conceived  to 
be  the  most  healthy  and  the  most  desirable  for 
young  people  of  both  sexes.  In  forming  plans  for 
Cuckoo’s  future  he  forgot  his  own  incurably  unin- 
teresting present. 

Consequently,  when  Sir  William  and  Lady  Ward- 


26 


THE  WIDOWER. 


law  arrived  on  a visit  which  they  had  thrown  over 
other  engagements  in  order  to  pay,  they  found  their 
host  in  pretty  good  spirits.  Intimately  though  she 
was  acquainted  with  her  cousin,  and  faithfully  as 
she  had  corresponded  with  him  for  a number  of 
years,  Lady  Wardlaw  knew  no  more  of  him  than  he 
had  chosen  to  tell  her,  and  she  had  been  rendered 
a little  uneasy  by  his  reluctance  to  return  to  Eng- 
land. What  if,  after  all,  he  had  contracted  an  un- 
fortunate fancy  for  foreign  habits?  But  his  pro- 
claimed determination  to  accept  the  position  to 
which  he  had  been  called  by  birth  reassured  her. 

“ Of  course  you  will,  and  of  course  you  must,” 
was  her  prompt  rejoinder.  “ You  would  have  to  do 
that  for  your  daughter’s  sake  if  you  didn’t  for  your 
own.” 

“Well,  one  has  some  other  incentives  and  re- 
sponsibilities; but  in  the  main  it  is,  as  you  say, 
more  a question  of  Cuckoo  than  of  anybody  or  any- 
thing else.  Her  life  is  beginning,  whereas  mine  is, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  over.” 

“My  dear  James,  what  nonsense!” 

“ Yo,  it  isn’t  nonsense,  it’s  sober  sense.  But 
never  *mind  me.  Is  a governess  indispensable,  do 
you  think?  ” 

“ Well — unless  you  send  her  to  school.” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  mean  to  send  her  to  school.  I wish 
I could  send  her  to  Eton;  but  as  that  can’t  be, 
what  I want  to  do  is  to  bring  her  up  as  nearly  as 
possible  like  a boy.  So  I would  fain  avoid  govern- 
esses, if  I could.” 

“ But  you  can’t,  and  girls  can’t  be  converted  into 


/ 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


27 


boys/*  said  Lady  Wardlaw  decisively.  What,  in  her 
opinion,  was  at  least  as  indispensable  as  a governess 
was  a wife;  but  it  was  perhaps  rather  too  soon  to  say 
so.  She  only  added:  “ Your  daughter  seems  to  be 
a dear  little  thing.  Not  a bit  like  you  in  the  face.** 
“ She  is  none  the  worse  for  that.** 

“ There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  your  face  that 

I know  of.  But  she  doesn*t  resemble ** 

Lady  Wardlaw  stopped  short,  and  James,  who 
guessed  what  she  had  been  going  to  say,  looked  an- 
noyed for  a moment.  His  voice,  however,  expressed 
no  displeasure  as  he  remarked:  “She  doesn*t  resemble 
the  Pennants.  I am  not  anxious  that  she  should, 
for  we  have  always  been  a perverse  family.  In  the 
long  run,  I take  it  that  she  will  be  what  her  education 
has  made  her;  and  that  is  why  her  education  must 
henceforth  be  my  chief  care,  if  not  my  only  one.** 

It  was  upon  the  tip  of  Lady  Wardlaw*s  tongue  to 
declare  that  a man  in  the  full  vigour  of  life  and  in- 
tellect ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  if  he  can 
find  no  better  employment  for  his  time  than  futile 
attempts  at  interference  with  the  operation  of  natu- 
ral laws;  but  she  bit  her  tongue  and  listened  pa- 
tiently to  what  her  cousin  had  to  say.  It  was  not, 
to  be  sure,  very  surprising  that  he  should  have 
formed  a poor  opinion  of  her  sex,  or  that  he  should 
desire  his  daughters  ethical  standard  to  differ  from 
that  by  which  her  mother*s  actions  had  presumably 
been  regulated. 

“ James,**  she  subsequently  informed  her  hus- 
band, “ is  going  in  for  misogyny.  A tiresome  form 
of  mania,  but,  I hope,  only  a temporary  one.** 


28 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ He  will  be  cured  of  it,”  Sir  William  predicted, 
u either  by  a clever  widow  or  by  some  ingenue  in 
her  teens.  One  knows  what  inevitably  happens  to 
widowers  who  affeet  such  aggressively  deep  mourn- 
ing. James  looks  as  if  the  housemaid  blacked  him 
every  day  after  polishing  the  grates.” 

“ He  doesn’t  say  a word  about  the  late  lament- 
ed,” observed  Lady  Wardlaw  pensively.  “ You 
think  he  is  sure  to  marry  again,  then?  ” 

“ My  dear  J ane,  I know  that  you  are  sure  to 
make  him,  if  nobody  else  does.  But  in  any  case, 
there  would  be  no  hope  for  the  poor  man;  the  house 
is  obviously  too  big,  and  the  dining  table  much  too 
long.  The  whole  thing  cries  aloud  for  pickanin- 
nies. Personally,  as  you  know,  I detest  children,  but 
I confess  to  a sneaking  fancy  for  Miss  Cuckoo,  whose 
little  nose,  one  foresees,  is  destined  to  be  put  out  of 
joint.” 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  HEIK  PKESUMPTIVE. 

The  conquest  of  Sir  William  Wardlaw  was  one 
of  a long  series  of  victories  which  Cuckoo  was  des- 
tined to  achieve  over  the  sterner  sex.  From  her 
earliest  childhood,  indeed,  up  to  the  present  time  of 
writing,  no  man  has  ever  seriously  attempted  to  re- 
sist her.  If  some  reason  must  be  assigned  for  this 
unvarying  success  it  may  be  suggested  that  her  com- 
plete immunity  from  shyness  or  self-consciousness, 
together  with  the  instinctive  facility  which  she  has 
always  displayed  for  adapting  herself  to  the  moods 
and  tastes  of  the  person  nearest  at  hand,  have  prob- 
ably had  a good  deal  to  do  with  it.  Other  and  more 
obvious  causes  have,  no  doubt,  contributed  to  the 
aforesaid  result,  but  beauty  of  face  or  form  can 
scarcely  be  reckoned  amongst  them.  Cuckoo’s  look- 
ing-glass reflected  at  the  period  with  which  we  are 
now  concerned,  and  reflects  still,  the  image  of  a 
rather  thick-set  little  mortal,  with  a turned-up  nose 
and  a wide,  humorous  mouth.  Only  her  large  and 
very  bright  brown  eyes  have  preserved  her  from  be- 
ing accounted  downright  plain. 

“ Which  is  rather  bad  luck,”  Sir  William  re- 
marked, “ for  her  mother  was  beautiful,  and  the 

29 


30 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Pennants  have  been  a handsome  race  from  time  im- 
memorial.” 

The  attraction  which  the  child  had  for  him  per- 
sonally he  ascribed  to  the  fact — he  professed  to  have 
ascertained  it  to  be  a fact — that  she  had  the  love  of 
all  art,  and  especially  of  music,  in  her.  Himself 
something  of  a dilettante,  a collector  of  pictures,  an 
authority  upon  old  china,  and  a tolerably  accom- 
plished musician,  he  was  wont  to  declare  that  he 
would  not  give  a pin  for  any  man  or  woman  who 
was  devoid  of  artistic  sense,  and  the  circumstance 
that  a considerable  number  of  persons  who  come 
under  that  denomination  occupy  prominent  posi- 
tions in  public  life  did  not  deter  him  from  pro- 
nouncing such  persons  to  be  radically  stupid.  Now, 
nobody  could  call  Cuckoo  Pennant  stupid,  although 
her  ability  to  name  the  notes  of  a chord  without 
looking  at  them  when  he  struck  the  keys  of  the  an- 
cient Broadwood  grand  in  the  drawing  room,  was 
perhaps  an  insufficient  ground  for  proclaiming  her 
a genius.  As  a notorious  hater  of  children,  how- 
ever, he  had  to  give  some  explanation  of  his  pro- 
longed rambles  through  the  gardens  and  shrubberies 
with  James  Pennant’s  queer,  old-fashioned  little  girl, 
and  his  wife  good-humouredly  replied: 

“ Don’t  apologize;  we  aren’t  jealous.  It  is  only 
when  other  people  are  out  of  the  way  that  I can  get 
James  to  talk  at  all,  and  even  then ” 

Even  then  she  made  no  great  headway  with  him. 
He  was  strongly  attached  to  her,  he  had  far  more 
confidence  in  her  than  he  had  in  any  other  woman, 
and  he  did  not  mind  listening  to  her  homilies,  the 


THE  HEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


31 


drift  of  which  was  more  apparent  to  him  than  she 
meant  it  to  be;  but  he  was  by  nature  so  reserved, 
and  circumstances  had  so  developed  his  inborn  reti- 
cence, that  his  past  remained  obscure  to  her  and 
his  future  a matter  of  pure  speculation.  What 
seemed  evident  was  that  he  would  do  nothing  in  a 
hurry.  He  might  or  he  might  not  eventually  go  in 
for  a political  career;  he  might  or  he  might  not  essay 
a second  matrimonial  venture;  for  the  time  being, 
the  only  subject  which  he  could  be  induced  to 
discuss  with  some  appearance  of  real  interest  was 
that  of  his  daughter’s  education. 

“ I’ll  find  some  trustworthy,  experienced,  elderly 
woman  for  you,”  Lady  Wardlaw  promised.  “ Of 
course  you  couldn’t  have  a resident  governess  who 
wasn’t  elderly.” 

But  James,  it  appeared,  was  in  no  hurry  about 
that  either.  “ All  in  good  time,”  he  said.  u For 
the  present,  I don’t  see  why  I shouldn’t  continue  to 
act  as  governess  myself.” 

“ But,  my  dear  J ames,  that  is  impracticable.  It 
stands  to  reason  that  you  won’t  be  able  to  find  the 
time,  even  if  there  were  no  other  objections.  Be- 
sides, you  can’t  have  the  child  with  you  all  day 
long,  and  I don’t — if  you’ll  excuse  my  saying  so — 
very  much  fancy  that  maid,  Budgett.  Too  vulgar 
and  too  cheeky  to  be  a good  companion  for  Cuckoo,  I 
should  say.” 

“ Yes,  perhaps;  but  I doubt  whether  she  is  doing 
much  harm,  and  her  reign  can’t,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  be  a long  one.  Meanwhile,  do  allow  us  to 
have  our  summer  holiday.  Everybody  is  entitled  to 


32 


THE  WIDOWER. 


summer  holidays,  you  know— including  my  heir 
presumptive,  who  is  coming  here  in  a few  days  with 
his  mother.  By  the  way,  what  sort  of  a woman  is 
poor  Arthur’s  widow?  It  is  years  since  I saw  her 
last,  and  the  only  thing  I remember  about  her  is 
that  she  had  a rather  red  face.” 

“ It  hasn’t  grown  any  paler,”  answered  Lady 
Wardlaw;  “ she  doesn’t  give  it  a chance.  Hunts 
regularly  three  days  a week  during  the  season,  I be- 
lieve, and  spends  most  of  her  time  out  of  doors  all 
the  year  round.  You  won’t  like  her,  though  she  is 
a good  fellow  in  her  way.  Did  she  ask  herself 
here,  or  did  you  ask  her?” 

“ Oh,  I asked  her.  The  boy  may  as  well  make 
acquaintance  with  his  future  dominions.  Added  to 
which,  her  coming  supplies  me  with  an  excuse  for 
imploring  you  to  stay  a little  longer.  You  won’t, 
I am  sure,  have  the  heart  to  throw  the  whole  bur- 
den of  entertaining  my  sporting  sister-in-law  upon 
me.” 

“ That  will  have  to  depend  upon  the  length  of 
her  visit,”  answered  Lady  Wardlaw.  “ I’ll  see  you 
through  a part  of  it,  but  there  are  some  engagements 
which  I am  afraid  we  must  keep  before  we  go  to 
Scotland,  where  I hope  you  will  join  us  later.  You 
used  to  be  a pretty  shot  once  upon  a time.  Have 
your  eye  and  hand  forgotten  their  cunning?” 

“ I don’t  know;  I haven’t  raised  a gun  to  my 
shoulder  for  Heaven  knows  how  long.  But  I 
couldn’t,  anyhow,  join  house  parties  or  shooting  par- 
ties this  year,”  said  James,  with  a downward  glance 
at  his  sable  clothing. 


THE  HEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


33 


“ Not  large  ones,  perhaps,  but  we  wouldn’t  ask 
you  to  meet  more  than  half  a dozen  people.  Why, 
by  the  way,  do  you  speak  of  Abbotswell  as  being 
Fitzroy’s  future  dominion?  I hope  Harriet  has  too 
much  common  sense  to  put  such  ideas  as  that  into 
the  boy’s  head,  because,  really,  you  know ” 

“ I am  not  aware  that  she  has  said  anything  to 
him  upon  the  subject,”  answered  James;  “ but  she 
might  do  so  without  risking  the  loss  of  her  reputa- 
tion for  common  sense.” 

Lady  Wardlaw  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
grunted,  but  did  not  deem  it  advisable  to  argue  the 
point.  She  thought,  however,  that  it  might  be  just 
as  well  to  address  a word  in  season  to  Mrs.  Arthur 
Pennant,  whose  view  of  James’s  duties  must  natu- 
rally differ  from  her  own,  and  who  might  possibly 
endeavour  to  extort  something  in  the  nature  of  rash 
promises  from  him. 

But  she  was  relieved  to  find,  almost  immediately 
after  the  arrival  of  the  heir  presumptive  and  his 
mother,  that  the  latter  was  under  no  foolish  illusions 
as  to  future  events.  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant  was  a 
good-humoured,  loud-voiced  lady,  whose  red-brown 
complexion  bore  out  the  description  given  of  her 
habitual  pursuits,  and  whose  costume  was  modelled 
upon  masculine  patterns. 

“ Oh,  that’s  a foregone  conclusion,”  said  she, 
when  she  had  been  refreshed  with  a cup  of  tea  and 
had  been  led  out  on  to  the  terrace  in  front  of  the 
house  by  Lady  Wardlaw.  “ I’m  free  to  confess  that 
if  James  were  as  inconsolable  as  he  looks  I shouldn’t 
be  very  sorry,  and  I don’t  deny  that  his  wife’s  death 


34 


THE  WIDOWER. 


was  more  of  a blow  to  me  than  it  can  have  been  to 
him.  Old  Mr.  Pennant  used  to  declare  that  he  was 
certain  she  would  live  to  any  age,  and  in  those  days 
one  had  one’s  modest  hopes.  But  one  must  take 
things  as  they  come.  I wouldn’t  give  twopence  for 
Fitz’s  chance  of  ever  inheriting  this  property  now; 
luckily,  he’s  too  young  to  be  disappointed.  But 
I’ll  tell  you  what,”  she  added,  with  a laugh,  “ suppos- 
ing, by  a miracle,  James  should  either  decide  to 
remain  single  or  fail  to  beget  an  heir  before  my  boy 
grows  up,  I’ll  get  Fitz  to  marry  that  little  girl  of 
his.  Under  the  circumstances,  I should  feel  that 
that  was  the  least  we  could  do.” 

“ He  gives  me  to  understand  that  his  intention 
is  to  remain  single,”  remarked  Lady  Wardlaw. 

“ That  can’t  really  be  his  intention,  and  if  it 
were,  you  would  never  let  him  stick  to  it,”  returned 
the  other,  laughing  again.  “ All  the  same,  I’m  pre- 
pared, as  I say,  to  make  him  a sporting  offer.  The 
young  ones  have  chummed  up  already,  you  see.” 

She  pointed  to  the  park,  across  which  two  juve- 
nile figures  could  be  discerned  hastening — Fitzroy, 
a tall,  broad-shouldered  boy  of  fourteen,  just  home 
from  Eton  for  the  holidays,  and  Cuckoo,  taking  two 
steps  to  his  one,  with  her  head  thrown  back  to  enable 
her  to  keep  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  above  her. 
They  appeared  to  be  deep  in  conversation. 

In  reality,  however,  almost  all  the  talking  was 
being  done  by  one  of  them;  the  other,  despite  his 
manifest  superiority  of  age,  sex,  and  stature,  was  be- 
ing catechised  after  a somewhat  condescending  fash- 
ion, and  so  taken  aback  was  he  by  the  audacity  of 


THE  HEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


35 


the  pigmy  who  trotted  at  his  side  that  he  had  as  yet 
been  unable  to  administer  any  of  the  crushing  snubs 
for  which  her  conduct  seemed  to  call.  Nor  until 
his  small  companion  had  elicited  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  information  that  she  desired  from  him  did 
he  recover  self-possession  enough  to  gasp  out  a re- 
monstrance: 

“ I say,  look  here!  little  girls  like  you  shouldn’t 
ask  such  a lot  of  questions.” 

“Why  not?”  Cuckoo  blandly  inquired. 

This  rather  disconcerted  her  admonisher,  who 
did  not  want  to  be  rude,  but  was  at  the  same  time 
conscious  of  what  he  owed  to  himself  and  his  dig- 
nity. “ You’re  only  a girl,  you  see,”  he  explained 
at  length,  “ and  a very  young  one  into  the  bargain.” 

“ Budgie  says  that  girls  are  always  much  older 
than  boys,”  observed  Cuckoo.  She  added  in  French 
— a language  in  which  she  was  quite  as  much  at 
home  as  in  her  own — “Je  suis  tres-avancee  pour  mon 
age”  And  while  Fitzroy,  to  whom  all  foreign 
tongues  were  unknown,  was  still  staring  at  her,  open- 
mouthed,  she  proceeded  to  account  for  the  inquisi- 
tiveness to  which  he  had  taken  exception.  “ If  I 
hadn’t  asked  you,  you  wouldn’t  have  told  me  any- 
thing. Now  I know  that  you  were  fourteen  last 
birthday,  and  that  you  have  been  at  Eton  a year, 
and  that  you  have  been  swished  once,  and  that  swish- 
ing means  whipping,  and  that  you  have  two  sisters, 
and  that  you  don’t  know  whether  they  are  pretty  or 
not,  but  you  think  not,  and — and — oh,  ever  so  much 
more!  ” She  drew  a long  breath,  and  concluded  by 
declaring  emphatically,  “I  love  you!” 


36 


THE  WIDOWER. 


It  has  to  be  recorded  with  regret  that  Mr.  Fitz- 
roy  Pennant’s  rejoinder  to  an  announcement  which 
should  have  been  found  flattering  by  anybody  was 
“ Get  out!  ” 

“ Don’t  you  love  me?  ” inquired  Cuckoo,  with  an 
air  of  innocent  wonder. 

“ Of  course  not.  I don’t  know  you  yet.  What 
a rum  un  you  are!  ” replied  the  youthful  and  truth- 
ful Anglo-Saxon  whom  she  addressed.  But,  fearing 
lest  she  should  be  unduly  cast  down,  he  went  on  to 
say:  “ I like  you  well  enough,  as  far  as  we  have  got, 
only  you  mustn’t  be  in  such  a hurry,  you  know.” 

“ Well,  you  are  going  to  love  me,”  the  unabashed 
Cuckoo  resumed.  “ Budgie  says  I can  make  any- 
body love  me.  She  does,  and  so  does  father,  and 
so  does  Sam,  the  head  gardener’s  boy,  and  so  does 
Sir  'William  Wardlaw.  Did  you  ever  see  Sir  William 
Wardlaw?  I’ll  show  him  to  you.” 

She  poked  her  head  forward,  in  imitation  of  Sir 
William’s  habitual  sidelong  stoop,  put  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  and,  with  a ludicrously  exact  re- 
production of  his  voice,  drawled  out:  “ My  dear 
Jane,  that  child  is  a marvel!  If  your  life  depended 
upon  it,  you  couldn’t  tell  me  whether  the  fourth 
note  of  this  passage  is  G sharp  or  A flat,  but  she 
can.” 

The  boy  broke  out  into  a loud,  abrupt  laugh. 
“ By  Jove!  ” he  exclaimed  admiringly. 

Cuckoo’s  subjugation  of  her  cousin  may  perhaps 
be  dated  from  that  moment.  It  was,  at  all  events, 
at  that  moment  that  he  formed  the  conviction,  to 
which  he  ever  afterward  remained  faithful,  of  her 


THE  HEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


37 


being  “ awfully  clever  and  since  he  had  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  himself  was  awfully  stupid, 
he  found  therein  the  excuse  which  self-respect  de- 
manded for  a more  or  less  complete  surrender  of  his 
views  and  opinions  to  hers. 

He  was  not,  as  a matter  of  fact,  awfully  stupid, 
only  rather  slow.  For  the  rest,  he  adequately  and 
satisfactorily  represented  the  average  well-born  Eng- 
lish boy,  the  traditional  good  looks  of  the  Pennant 
family  being  supplemented  in  his  case  by  the  fine 
physique  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  mothers 
side.  That  Cuckoo  and  he  should  become,  as  they  did, 
firm  friends  was,  moreover,  quite  in  accordance  with 
the  wishes  of  their  elders,  who  smiled  upon  their  alli- 
ance. Only  Fitzroy  privately  begged  Cuckoo  not  to 
talk  any  more  about  loving  him.  He  said  that  was 
putting  things  much  too  strongly,  and  exposed  you 
to  the  risk  of  being  laughed  at  and  chaffed  by  those 
who  might  chance  to  overhear  your  words.  There 
would  be  no  objection  to  her  calling  him  a jolly 
good  fellow,  or  something  of  that  sort,  if  she  thought 
him  deserving  of  such  compliments. 

After  a day  or  two,  Sir  William  Wardlaw  an- 
nounced that  he  must  reluctantly  bring  his  visit  to 
a close.  “ Fare  thee  well,  faithless  girl!”  said  he, 
with  a wave  of  his  hand  toward  Cuckoo.  “ Youth 
and  beauty,  in  the  person  of  Fitzroy — upon  whose 
cheeks  I am  glad  to  notice  the  blush  of  compunction 
mantling — have  cut  me  out,  and  you  decline  to  keep 
company  with  me  any  longer.  I shall  seek  conso- 
lation and  oblivion  on  the  moors.” 

So  the  Wardlaws  departed,  and  James  was  left 


38 


THE  WIDOWER. 


to  the  society  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant,  whom,  upon 
more  familiar  acquaintance,  he  found  that  he  liked 
pretty  well.  He  had  not  much  in  common  with  the 
bluff,  plain-spoken  woman,  yet  her  honesty  gave 
her  a certain  claim  upon  his  regard,  and  the  unso- 
licited advice  with  which  she  favoured  him  was  so 
far  welcomed  that  it  chanced  to  lend  support  to  his 
own  inclinations. 

“ Stave  off  the  governess  as  long  as  you  can,” 
said  she;  “ I would,  if  I were  you.  Governesses  are 
always  a bore,  and  sometimes  they  play  the  very 
deuce.  What  I should  recommend,  for  the  present, 
in  the  way  of  lessons,  would  be  occasional  instruc- 
tion from  the  curate,  who  will  answer  your  purpose 
quite  well  and  will  be  glad  enough  to  turn  an  honest 
penny.  Future  arrangements  may  be  left  to  the  un- 
avoidable stepmother — oh,  don’t  say  she  isn’t  un- 
avoidable; I know  better.  Meanwhile,  if  you  can 
make  a sportswoman  of  the  child,  you  won’t  have 
done  badly  for  her.  My  two  girls,  I am  thankful 
to  say,  know  as  much  about  sport  as  their  brother 
does,  and  that  means  something,  I can  tell  you.” 

She  had  to  return  to  her  two  girls  presently,  but 
Fitzroy,  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  his  entertainers, 
backed  by  his  own  expressed  wish,  was  allowed  to 
remain  another  week  at  Abbotswell.  J ames  had 
purchased  a couple  of  ponies,  upon  the  smaller  and 
quieter  of  which  Cuckoo  fearlessly  perched  herself 
every  morning,  and  she  was  taught  to  ride  with  the 
ease  and  rapidity  which  then  and  thereafter  char- 
acterized all  her  efforts  to  learn  anything  that  she 
wanted  to  learn.  Her  father,  who,  without  any  pre- 


THE  HEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


39 


tensions  to  be  a finished  horseman,  could  stick  to 
his  saddle  as  well  as  another,  once  or  twice  mounted 
one  of  the  carriage  horses  and  superintended  the 
process  of  education  which  Fitzroy  had  been  so  kind 
as  to  undertake;  but  as  a rule  he  left  the  children 
to  themselves.  James  Pennant  was  well  aware — and 
though  he  would  gladly  have  had  it  otherwise,  he 
could  not  help  it — that  only  a very  few  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures were  ever  quite  at  their  ease  in  his 
presence. 

It  w^as  a pity  that  he  was  so  formidable.  Long 
afterward,  when  he  had  become  a noted  personage  in 
public  life,  Lady  Wardlaw  used  to  declare  that  he  had 
made  himself  impossible  as  leader  of  the  House*  of 
Commons  simply  and  solely  by  reason  of  his  inabil- 
ity to  let  people  down  easy.  But  he  was  what  he 
was,  and  thus  poor  Cuckoo  got  into  sad  trouble  for 
excitedly  informing  him  one  day  at  luncheon  that 
she  had  jumped  her  pony  across  a stream  almost  as 
broad  as  the  room. 

“ That,”  observed  the  recipient  of  this  startling 
statement  quietly,  “ is  impossible.” 

And  the  said  stream  having,  on  application  to 
the  veracious  Fitzroy,  been  reduced  to  the  dimensions 
of  a very  small  ditch,  some  stern,  severe  words  were 
spoken  which  caused  the  ears  of  the  hapless  boaster 
to  tingle.  Also  she  was  forbidden,  by  way  of  neces- 
sary punishment,  to  take  her  pony  out  of  the  stable 
again  for  three  whole  days — a rather  heavy  sentence, 
considering  what  it  implied.  For  on  the  third  day 
Fitzroy  was  to  go  away,  and  wdiether  he  would  ever 
come  back  again,  who  could  tell?  The  boy — not 


40 


THE  WIDOWER. 


without  a secret  trepidation — subsequently  took  his 
courage  in  both  hands,  and,  on  being  admitted  into 
Mr.  Pennants  study,  pleaded  for  a partial  remission. 

“ She’s  awfully  sorry,”  he  said,  “ and  she  didn’t 
really  mean  it,  you  know.  It’s  only  a way  of  talk- 
ing that  she  has.” 

“ She  must  be  cured  of  that  way  of  talking,” 
was  J ames’s  inexorable  reply.  “ I could  not  hope 
or  expect  to  cure  her  if  I myself  were  to  say  one 
thing  and  mean  another.” 

So  there  were  no  more  rides,  Fitzroy  stolidly 
refusing  an  unaccompanied  gallop  on  the  steed  pro- 
vided for  him;  but  he  assured  Cuckoo  that  he  would 
certainly  return  during  the  Christmas  holidays,  if 
he  was  asked — and  indeed  why  had  two  ponies  been 
bought  unless  a second  invitation  was  in  store  for 
him? 

But  Cuckoo  shook  her  head  mournfully  and 
prophesied  that  he  would  forget  her  when  he  went 
back  to  Eton.  “ You  love — well,  then,  you  like  boys 
much  more  than  girls,  Fitz;  you  know  you  do!” 

Fitzroy  replied  that  there  were  exceptions  to 
every  rule.  He  likewise  favoured  her  with  the  con- 
solatory assertion  that  she,  individually,  was  not  a 
bit  like  girls  in  general. 

“ Father  doesn’t  want  me  to  be,  and  I don’t  want 
to  be,”  said  Cuckoo,  with  a rather  wistful  sigh; 
“ but  I expect  it  isn’t  any  good.” 

“What  isn’t  any  good?”  asked  Fitzroy,  staring. 

The  girl  made  no  answer.  Garrulous  though  she 
was,  she  had  many  thoughts  which  she  kept  to  her- 
self, and  her  perceptions  of  immutable  facts  were 


THE  IIEIR  PRESUMPTIVE. 


41 


keener,  it  may  be,  than  those  of  a boy,  or  even  of 
so  dolefully  experienced  a man  as  James  Pennant. 
“ It’s  easy  for  you  to  tell  the  truth,”  she  remarked 
presently;  “ that’s  because  you  aren’t  a girl.” 

“ No,  it  isn’t,”  Fitzroy  stoutly  returned,  “ it’s  be- 
cause I’m  a duffer  and  I haven’t  got  any  imagination. 
You’re  so  brimful  of  it  that  you  couldn’t  call  a 
ditch  a ditch  if  you  tried.  Bless  your  soul!  I un- 
derstand that  you  didn’t  mean  to  tell  any  lie.” 

From  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  young 
gentleman  was  not,  after  all,  quite  so  dull  as  he 
modestly  supposed  himself. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the 
extravagant  gratitude  with  which  his  speech  was 
received;  nor,  when  the  sad  moment  for  leave-taking 
arrived,  could  he  approve  of  the  demonstrations  in 
which  Cuckoo  saw  fit  to  indulge.  She  led  him  into 
a secluded  corner  of  the  garden — “ to  say  good-bye 
all  by  ourselves,”  she  explained — and  before  he 
could  defend  himself  suddenly  kissed  him  on  both 
cheeks. 

“ There!”  she  cried;  “I  know  you  hated  it,  but 
I had  to  do  it.  I suppose  you  wouldn’t,  just  for 
this  once,  say  ( I love  you  ’ ? ” 

“It’s  such  rot,  you  know!”  remonstrated  the 
roseate  Fitzroy. 

“ But  nobody  would  hear  you  except  me,  and 
I’ll  never  tell,”  pleaded  the  precocious  representative 
of  the  emotional  sex. 

“ Well,  then,”  returned  the  boy,  after  a moment 
of  hesitation,  “ I love  you,  Cuckoo.  Now  I hope 
you’re  satisfied!” 


i 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TRIBULATION. 

It  was  all  very  fine  for  Cuckoo  to  boast  that  she 
was  not  afraid  of  her  father;  but  she  was,  as  a fact, 
deeply  in  awe  of  that  quiet,  silent  master,  who  gave 
her  the  impression  of  doing  what  he  believed  to  be 
right  simply  because  it  had  to  be  done,  and  without 
either  liking  or  disliking  his  unavoidable  duty. 
Such  persons  are  often  said  to  be  born  rulers  of 
men,  and  indeed  they  have  proved  themselves  so 
upon  more  than  one  occasion;  but  it  may  perhaps 
be  doubted  whether  they  are  qualified  to  become 
rulers  of  women.  James,  however,  was  so  far  suc- 
cessful with  Cuckoo  that,  after  the  taste  of  adver- 
sity recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  she  took  a great 
deal  of  trouble  to  keep  within  the  limits  of  strict 
accuracy  in  relating  her  small  adventures.  Some  of 
these  she  judged  it  prudent — lest  she  should  fall 
into  temptation — to  avoid  relating  altogether,  and 
this  was  a little  unfortunate,  for  James  always  knew 
when  she  was  keeping  something  back  from  him, 
and  was  always  hurt  by  the  withholding  of  confi- 
dences which  he  did  not  choose  to  solicit. 

Nevertheless,  this  odd  couple,  when  they  were 
left  to  themselves,  remained  friends,  if  not  quite  as 
42 


TRIBULATION. 


43 


close  friends  as  they  had  been  on  the  shores  of  the 
Lago  Maggiore.  Lessons  were  resumed,  and  the  as- 
sistance of  little  Mr.  Andrews,  the  curate,  was,  as 
Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant  had  recommended,  provision- 
ally called  in.  Nothing  was  easier  than  to  ^ain  the 
upper  hand  of  the  curate  of  the  parish,  who"  was  an 
amiable  young  gentleman,  fresh  from  Cambridge, 
addicted  to  cricket,  devoid  alike  of  capacity  for  im- 
parting knowledge  and  of  desire  to  establish  author- 
ity over  his  pupil;  so  Cuckoo  got  on  quite  nicely 
with  him,  and  he  gave  the  reports  of  her  proficiency 
which  she  wished  him  to  give.  During  play  hours 
her  father  frequently  took  her  out  riding,  and  did 
his  best  to  replace  the  absent  and  mourned  Fitzroy. 
But  he  was  painfully  conscious  of  not  having  it  in 
him  to  replace  anybody — least  of  all,  perhaps,  the 
indulgent  and  injudicious  mother  of  whom  neither 
he  nor  the  child  ever  spoke.  What,  according  to 
his  notions,  could  be  done,  he  did,  with  results  wdiich, 
so  far  as  they  went,  were  salutary  enough.  Twice 
a week  a retired  drill  sergeant  came  over  from  De- 
vizes to  put  Cuckoo  through  a course  of  gymnastics 
and  athletic  exercises,  and  likewise,  with  James’s 
full  approval,  to  instruct  her  in  the  noble  art  of 
self-defence. 

“ You  are  going  to  be  a woman,”  he  would  some- 
times say,  “but  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  be  taught  to  use  your  limbs  as  men  use  them, 
and  learn  some  of  the  lessons  which  every  man  has 
to  learn.” 

One  of  these,  as  we  know,  was  to  tell  the  truth; 

another  was  to  face  danger  fearlessly;  a third  was 
4 


44 


THE  WIDOWER. 


to  bear  hard  knocks,  if  they  chanced  to  come,  with- 
out crying  out.  So  when  Cuckoo’s  pony  put  his 
foot  into  a rabbit  hole  one  day,  and  sent  her  flying 
into  space,  with  a consequent  black  eye  and  a rather 
severe  shaking,  she  had  to  apply  for  sympathy  to 
Budgett,  who  responded  to  the  appeal  in  no  grudg- 
ing spirit.  Her  father  merely  remarked  that  one 
must  expect  to  get  an  occasional  fall,  and  that  ex- 
periences of  that  sort  had  the  good  effect  of 
teaching  careless  equestrians  to  mind  what  they  were 
about.  So  the  weeks  and  months  passed  on,  with 
little  in  the  way  of  incident  to  break  their  monotony, 
and  autumn  turned  the  woods  yellow,  and  the  ques- 
tion of  engaging  a governess  was  suffered  to  remain 
still  in  abeyance.  Upon  the  whole.  Cuckoo  had  a 
pleasant  time  of  it  and  was  tolerably  happy;  her 
inevitable  solitude  being  to  some  extent  relieved  by 
long  confabulations  and  rambles  with  Sam,  the  gar- 
dener’s boy.  J ames,  too,  began  to  find  himself 
shaking  down  into  his  place  as  a country  squire.  He 
was  placed  on  the  Commission  of  the  Peace;  he  saw 
something,  though  not  very  much,  of  his  neighbours; 
he  proved  himself  a very  fair  shot;  something  like 
a definite  programme  of  future  existence  began  to 
shape  itself  out  for  him.  Why,  when  the  hunting 
season  opened,  he  saw  fit  to  follow  the  hounds  was 
not  very  apparent,  for  he  did  not  really  care  much 
about  the  sport,  and  he  was  far  from  practising 
what  he  preached  with  regard  to  careful  riding. 
The  M.  F.  H.  declared  that  it  positively  made  his 
blood  run  cold  to  watch  Mr.  Pennant’s  uncalled-for 
performances;  the  man,  according  to  him,  had  nei- 


TRIBULATION. 


45 


ther  seat,  hands,  nor  judgment,  while  anybody  could 
see  that  the  animals  which  he  bestrode  were  too 
many  guns  for  so  reckless  and  ignorant  a horseman. 

However,  if  it  amused  him  to  risk  his  neck,  that 
was  his  affair;  what  everybody  was  agreed  that  he 
had  no  earthly  business  to  do  was  to  bring  a mere 
baby,  mounted  on  a fat  pony,  out  with  him  and  ex- 
pect her  to  follow  where  he  led.  As  a rule,  of  course, 
the  pony  did  not  and  could  not  follow,  so  that  Mr. 
Pennant  was  balked  of  more  than  one  run,  a disap- 
pointment which  he  bore  imperturbably.  But,  since 
he  was  determined  that  the  child  should  learn  not 
to  shirk  difficulties,  and  since  Cuckoo  was  too  much 
afraid  of  being  afraid  to  disobey  his  injunctions,  a 
day  came  when  the  accident  which  he  ought  to  have 
foreseen  occurred.  It  looked  like  a rather  nasty  acci- 
dent, too.  The  fence,  to  be  sure,  was  an  insignifi- 
cant one  and  might  easily  have  been  cleared  but  for 
the  invisible  ditch  beyond  it;  but  into  that  ditch 
the  pony  dropped  his  fore  legs,  and  his  rider,  who 
did  not  understand  how  to  fall  clear  of  him,  was 
for  some  moments  in  imminent  danger  of  terminating 
her  hunting  career  there  and  then.  She  was  insensi- 
ble when  they  carried  her  into  a neighbouring  farm- 
house, where  the  local  practitioner,  who  happened, 
luckily,  to  form  one  of  the  field,  was  soon  in  attend- 
ance. He  could  not,  he  said,  at  once  ascertain  the 
extent  of  her  injuries,  but  these  subsequently  proved 
to  amount  to  nothing  more  serious  than  a couple  of 
broken  ribs  and  an  ugly  gash  below  the  knee,  where 
she  had  been  kicked. 

“A  couple  of  inches  higher,”  the  doctor  re- 


46 


THE  WIDOWER. 


marked  on  the  following  day,  by  which  time  James 
had  been  relieved  of  his  worst  fears,  “ and  she  would 
have  been  lame  for  life,  in  all  probability.  Even  as 
it  is,  Mr.  Pennant,  I shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if 
you  had  ruined  her  nerve.  It's  no  business  of  mine, 
of  course,  but,  being  a bit  of  a hunting  man  myself, 
I can't  help  saying  that  your  method  of  teaching  a 
small  child  to  ride  to  hounds  is  opposed  to  every 
principle  of  common  sense." 

James  accepted  the  rebuke  meekly,  promising  to 
profit  by  it.  He  had  in  truth  had  a terrible  fright, 
and  what  augmented  alike  his  self-reproach  and  his 
thankfulness  was  the  pluck  with  which  Cuckoo  en- 
dured a good  deal  of  pain  and  discomfort.  He  spent 
nearly  the  whole  day  in  the  child's  room  while  she 
was  confined  to  bed,  reading  fairy  tales  aloud  to 
her,  playing  games  of  draughts  with  her  (which 
his  conscience,  under  the  exceptional  circumstances, 
permitted  him  to  lose),  and  tending  her  with  a deft 
gentleness  of  touch  unattainable  by  the  jealous  Budg- 
ett,  whose  displeasure  found  vent  in  subdued  snorts 
and  mutterings.  If  Cuckoo  was  a little  proud  of 
herself  and  a trifle  over-exultant  in  her  assertions 
that  she  had  not  been  in  the  least  frightened  and 
would  ride  at  the  same  place  a second  time  as  soon 
as  ever  she  should  be  fit  to  get  into  the  saddle  once 
more,  who  could  blame  her? 

“I'm  not  a coward,  am  I,  father?"  she  trium- 
phantly asked. 

And  James  could  only  reply:  “Ho,  my  dear, 
you  have  shown  that  you  are  not.  But  I,  unfor- 
tunately, have  shown  that  I am  a stupid  ignoramus. 


TRIBULATION. 


47 


and  when  you  resume  hunting  I must  try  to  find 
some  more  capable  pilot  for  you.” 

The  child’s  hot  little  hand  was  instantly  stretched 
out  to  grasp  his.  “ I’d  rather  go  with  you,  father, 
if  you’ll  take  me,”  she  said. 

So,  for  the  time  being  at  all  events,  those  two 
came  very  near  to  understanding  one  another,  and 
the  period  of  convalescence  which  followed — brief,  as 
the  convalescence  of  healthy  children  always  is — was 
one  upon  which  they  both  afterward  liked  to  look 
back.  But  they  were  too  radically  unlike,  alas!  to  ar- 
rive at  that  permanent  mutual  comprehension  which 
is  so  seldom  reached  by  differing  natures  until  events 
and  lapse  of  time  have  rendered  it  of  small  avail. 
Insensibly,  and  without  any  ostensible  reason  for  it, 
they  began  to  drift  apart  again  after  Cuckoo  was 
running  about  as  usual;  they  had  little  unconscious 
ways  of  hurting  one  another’s  feelings,  the  accumu- 
lation of  which  was  only  too  effectual.  Cuckoo 
could  not  dispense  with  being  petted,  and  her  father 
ceased  to  be  demonstrative  as  soon  as  she  was  re- 
stored to  health.  James,  on  his  side,  noticed  that 
the  child  had  trivial  secrets  and  concealments  from 
him,  and  he  was  sore  at  his  failure  to  secure  her 
confidence. 

The  Arthur  Pennants  were  to  have  come  en 
masse  to  spend  Christmas,  but  at  the  last  moment 
one  of  Mrs.  Arthur’s  little  girls  defeated  this  project 
by  developing  measles,  which  was  a sad  disappoint- 
ment to  the  expectant  Cuckoo. 

“ Couldn’t  Fitz  come  without  the  others?  ” she 
asked,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 


48 


THE  WIDOWER. 


i 


But  James  did  not  think  it  would  be  prudent  to 
run  the  risk  of  infection,  so  she  submitted,  sighing 
deeply,  to  cruel  Fate’s  decree. 

J ames  apologized.  “ I would  ask  the  boy  if  I 
could,”  he  said.  “ I know  how  dreary  it  must  be 
for  you  to  have  no  young  companions — only  an  old 
fogy  like  me  in  the  house.” 

Cuckoo  did  not  contradict  him,  but  it  was  never 
her  way  to  brood  or  sulk.  “ I shall  have  to  make 
the  best  of  Sam,”  was  her  smiling  and  philosophical 
rejoinder. 

Now  the  best  that  could  be  made  of  Sam  was, 
unhappily,  nothing  very  good;  for  he  was  an  idle, 
mischievous  young  rascal,  with  whom  Cuckoo  would 
never  have  been  allowed  to  associate  as  constantly 
and  familiarly  as  she  did,  had  all  been  known  about 
him  that  might  have  been  known.  It  is  true  that 
Mr.  Andrews,  who  did  know  something,  thought  it 
his  duty  to  address  a mild  remonstrance  upon  the 
subject  to  Mr.  Pennant;  but  this  was  not  very  well 
received.  James  disliked  talebearers,  and  cour- 
teously, but  rather  coldly,  gave  his  informer  to  un- 
derstand as  much.  Cuckoo,  therefore,  was  suffered 
to  prosecute,  unmolested,  her  intimacy  with  this  so- 
cial inferior,  and  although  his  ethical  standard  was 
scarcely  of  a nature  to  command  her  respect,  she 
found  him,  as  she  said,  “ very  amusing,”  a quality 
which  always,  in  her  eyes,  covered  a multitude  of 
defects. 

Sam  was  addicted  to  smoking  on  the  sly,  not  so 
much  because  he  liked  it  as  because  his  father  had 
strictly  forbidden  indulgence  in  the  habit.  It  was 


TRIBULATION. 


49 


courageous  of  him  to  defy  the  paternal  prohibition, 
seeing  that  a short  clay  pipe,  filled  with  shag,  never 
failed  to  make  him  disastrously  sick,  and  it  may  have 
been — let  us  charitably  hope  that  it  was — a desire  to 
spare  him  and  herself  such  frequent  discomfort  that 
led  Cuckoo  into  the  commission  of  an  act  of  petty 
larceny.  It  was  easy  enough  to  abstract  a cigarette 
from  the  silver  box  which  stood  on  Mr.  Pennant’s 
writing  table;  he  was  not  likely  to  miss  it,  and  in- 
deed did  not  miss  it.  But  that  mild  Egyptian  to- 
bacco of  James’s  was  the  very  thing  to  suit  an  ado- 
lescent smoker,  and  Sam,  who  was  a broad-chested 
boy,  with  fine,  powerful  lungs,  could  get  through 
half  a dozen  of  these  in  no  time,  after  which  he 
would  ask  for  more.  Thus  it  became  a serious  ques- 
tion with  Cuckoo  whether  she  could  continue  to  sup- 
ply an  increasing  demand  without  laying  herself 
open  to  retribution  here  and  hereafter. 

“ It’s  stealing,  you  know,  Sam,”  she  ended  by 
objecting;  “you  can’t  call  it  anything  else.” 

“ Lor’  bless  ’ee,  nobody  don’t  call  that  stealin’,” 
her  confederate  returned.  “ Stealin’  means  priggin’ 
of  money  and  jools  and  such  like.  Why,  just  look 
at  father!  ” And  here  Mr.  Samuel  proceeded  to 
enter  into  details  respecting  the  sale  of  fruit  and 
vegetables,  which  enlightened  his  hearer  as  to  the 
accepted  signification  of  the  word  perquisite. 

“ It  is  all  very  wrong,”  said  Cuckoo  virtuously, 
“ and  if  you  want  any  more  cigarettes,  you  must 
go  and  get  them  yourself.  I won’t  tell,  but  I won’t 
take  them  for  you  again  after  this.” 

Yet  she  was  prevailed  upon  to  resume  her  nefari- 


50 


THE  WIDOWER. 


ous  practices,  influenced  partly  by  Sam’s  threat  of 
deserting  so  chicken-hearted  a pal,  partly,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  by  his  representations  that  “ nobody  wouldn’t 
be  none  the  wiser.” 

It  is  quite  possible  that  the  crime  might  have  re- 
mained unsuspected  had  that  young  villain’s  ac- 
quired appetite  for  tobacco  been  less  immoderate; 
the  disappearance  of  six  cigarettes  per  diem  may 
very  well  escape  the  notice  of  an  absent-minded  man, 
but  when  it  comes  to  a dozen  or  more,  suspicion  is 
apt  to  be  aroused,  and  thus  James  ended  by  feeling 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  speak  rather  sharply  to 
the  butler. 

“ Barker,  somebody  is  helping  himself  every  day 
to  my  cigarettes.  I accuse  no  one,  having  no  evi- 
dence to  go  upon,  but  I can  not  keep  everything 
under  lock  and  key,  and  I must  hold  you  responsible 
for  this  systematic  robbery  unless  you  can  check  it.” 

Now  Barker,  as  it  happened,  was  a total  ab- 
stainer from  spirituous  liquors  and  tobacco,  so  that 
his  withers  were  unwrung.  But  of  course  he  was 
not  going  to  lose  his  place  in  order  to  screen  Thomas, 
the  footman,  who,  on  being  interrogated,  did  enter 
a plea  of  not  guilty,  but  was  so  incoherent  and  in- 
dignant (his  conscience  perhaps  not  being  wholly 
void  of  offence)  that  when  he  went  on  to  give  a 
month’s  notice  he  was  not  pressed  to  reconsider  the. 
point. 

A most  unhappy  and  sorely  perplexed  culprit  was 
Cuckoo  on  receiving  the  news  that  Thomas  was 
about  to  leave  under  a cloud — a cloud,  alas!  of 
Sam’s  blowing  and  her  procuring.  What  was  to  be 


TRIBULATION. 


51 


done?  The  choice,  at  first  sight,  seemed  to  lie  be- 
tween treachery  to  an  accomplice  and  the  sacrifice 
of  an  innocent  victim — a pair  of  gruesome  alterna- 
tives. But  reflection  suggested  a third  course,  which 
the  delinquent  made  haste  to  adopt,  lest  further  re- 
flection should  deprive  her  of  the  heroism  that  it 
exacted. 

“ Budgie,”  Cuckoo  tragically  announced,  fling- 
ing herself  on  a sudden  into  the  arms  of  the  only 
person  whom  she  felt  able  to  face,  “I  am  going  to 
hell!  ” 

“ Oh,  you  unladylike  child!”  exclaimed  the 
shocked  Budgett;  “ this  comes  of  keeping  low  com- 
pany, which  I have  said  all  along  your  papa  didn’t 
ought  to  let  you  run  about  wild  with  that  impu- 
dent gardener’s  boy.  What  ever  can  you  be  think- 
ing about  to  say  such  things!  ” 

“ I say  them  because  they  are  true,”  answered 
Cuckoo  dolorously.  “ If  you  break  the  ten  com- 
mandments you  go  to  hell,  and  that’s  what  I’ve 
been  doing.  Thomas  mustn’t  be  sent  away.  It  was 
I who  took  father’s  cigarettes.  Yes,  and  I smoked 
them  all  myself — I did  indeed — and  liked  them!” 

"Well,  I never!”  gasped  Budgett.  "So  that’s 
why  your  frocks  has  been  smelling  so  horrid!  Well, 
I shall  have  to  tell  your  papa,  that’s  certain,  and  you 
had  better  make  up  your  mind  to  it.” 

" I want  you  to  tell  him,”  poor  Cuckoo  said.  “ I 
would  tell  him  myself,  only — only,  I’m  afraid!” 

Not  without  a pang  did  she  stoop  to  that  morti- 
fying avowal.  She  felt,  however,  that  the  cup  of 
humiliation  must  be  drained  to  its  dregs,  and  that, 


52 


THE  WIDOWER. 


contemptible  as  she  might  appear,  she  was  in  reality 
even  more  so  than  she  had  painted  herself.  Budg- 
ett  triumphed  no  more  than  was  natural,  merely 
remarking: 

“ Fm  sure  I don’t  wonder!  I’ll  say  all  I can  for 
you — not  being  afraid  of  him  myself,  nor  any  reason 
to  be — but  punishment  is  what  you  must  look  for. 
I couldn’t  advise  him  to  let  such  behaviour  pass 
without  punishment — I couldn’t  really!  ” 

The  idea  of  Budgett  offering  sage  advice  to  one 
who  would  assuredly  not  give  her  the  chance  of 
taking  so  great  a liberty  would  have  made  Cuckoo 
laugh  if  she  had  been  still  capable  of  laughter.  As 
it  was,  she  limited  herself  to  remarking  sorrowfully, 
“ It  won’t  make  any  difference  what  you  say.” 

What  Budgett  actually  did  say  never  transpired, 
but  it  may  safely  be  assumed  that  she  was  not  per- 
mitted to  wander  very  far  from  the  point.  That 
she  had  interceded  for  Cuckoo  she  declared  on  her 
return  from  the  audience  which  she  had  requested. 

“ Though  what  he  means  to  do  with  you,  my 
dear,  I really  can’t  tell,”  she  was  fain  to  confess. 
“ He’s  that  stiff  and  haughty  there’s  no  saying 
whether  he’s  pleased  or  displeased.” 

He  certainly  was  not  pleased,  as  Cuckoo  discov- 
ered, when  she  tremblingly  entered  the  study 
whither  she  had  been  summoned,  and  he  did  not 
disguise  from  her  that,  had  she  been  a boy,  he  would 
probably  have  thought  it  his  duty  to  give  her  a 
sound  whipping.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  ready 
to  allow  her  such  credit  as  was  due  to  her  voluntary 
admission  of  guilt.  Her  guilt,  she  must  understand. 


TRIBULATION. 


53 


consisted  in  the  painful  fact  that  she  had  been  a 
thief.  Smoking  was  not  in  itself  a criminal  offence, 
although  it  was,  in  James’s  opinion,  a most  unde- 
sirable habit  for  ladies  to  contract,  and  quite  inad- 
missible in  the  case  of  young  children.  She  would 
have  to  give  him  her  word  of  honour  that  she  would 
never  do  such  a thing  again.  For  the  rest,  both  she 
and  her  father  must  beg  Thomas’s  pardon,  and  the 
household  would  be  informed  of  how  she  had  dis- 
graced herself.  There  was  to  be  no  other  punish- 
ment, it  seemed,  except  that  for  a fortnight  to  come 
she  would  be  sent  to  bed  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 

Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  she  might  feel,  and 
did  feel,  that  she  had  been  let  off  upon  tolerably  easy 
terms.  The  melancholy  part  of  it  was  that,  al- 
though her  breach  of  the  ninth  commandment  had 
been  confessed  and  condoned,  she  remained  splen- 
didly mendacious,  and,  since  one  may  as  well  be 
hanged  for  a sheep  as  a lamb,  she  proceeded  to  add 
to  the  sum  of  her  mendacity  by  some  amazing  im- 
aginative flights.  Averse  though  he  was  to  asking 
questions,  James  could  not  help  expressing  some 
curiosity  as  to  the  origin  of  the  strange  taste  which 
she  professed  to  have  acquired.  “ I should  have 
thought  you  would  have  made  yourself  sick,”  he 
remarked.  Whereupon  Cuckoo,  perceiving  at  once 
that  her  story,  as  it  stood,  lacked  verisimilitude,  has- 
tened to  describe  graphically  and  in  full  detail  the 
sensations  of  nausea  from  which  she  had  not  suf- 
fered. Temptation,  she  averred,  had  assailed  her 
at  first  in  the  form  of  a desire  to  do  what  her  father 
did;  afterward,  triumphing  over  preliminary  incon- 


54 


THE  WIDOWER. 


veniences,  she  had  began  to  find  the  effects  of  to- 
bacco soothing  and  its  flavour  agreeable;  finally,  it 
had  become  almost  a necessity  to  her.  But  never 
again!  She  had  been  too  miserable  all  the  time  to 
derive  any  real  satisfaction  from  the  gratification  of 
her  senses,  and  now  that  she  had  given  her  word  of 
honour,  there  was  an  end  to  it.  All  this  was  poured 
forth  so  glibly  and  with  an  air  of  such  innocent  can- 
dour that  the  most  sceptical  of  men  might  well  have 
been  deceived.  James,  at  all  events,  was  free  from 
the  faintest  shadow  of  suspicion;  once  or  twice  he 
even  laughed. 

At  a later  hour  of  the  day  Cuckoo  went  out  into 
the  garden  in  search  of  Sam,  whom,  when  she  had 
discovered  him,  she  sorrowfully  but  firmly  informed 
that  all  was  over  between  them.  “ Perhaps  it  isn’t 
altogether  your  fault,”  her  sense  of  justice  impelled 
her  to  add,  “ but  I can’t  bear  the  sight  of  you  now. 
So  I couldn’t  play  with  you  any  more,  you  see,  even 
if  I wanted  to.” 

Sam  was  a good  deal  annoyed.  He  had  liked 
those  cigarettes,  and  he  had  also  liked  his  playmate, 
whose  action  in  denouncing  herself  struck  him  as 
both  foolish  and  uncalled-for.  He  told  her  as  much 
in  the  simple  and  direct  language  which  was  habit- 
ual to  him,  and  inquired  reproachfully  why  the 
blazes  she  couldn’t  have  kept  her  mouth  shut. 

“ You  don’t  understand,”  answered  Cuckoo,  with 
mournful  and  compassionate  dignity;  “ you  are  a very 
common  boy.  I hope,  after  this,  you  will  not  speak 
to  me  again  unless  you  are  spoken  to.  Fitz  would 
have  understood.  Good  evening.” 


TRIBULATION. 


55 


She  then  betook  herself  to  a certain  disused  ar- 
bour in  a remote  corner  of  the  grounds  and,  curling 
herself  up  on  the  worm-eaten  bench  within  it,  wept 
bitterly.  If  there  had  hitherto  been  any  doubt  as 
to  her  destination  beyond  the  grave,  there  could  be 
none  now.  Her  dreadful  fate  was  to  bear  for  the 
rest  of  her  days  the  burden  of  a lie  of  which  she 
might  indeed  repent,  but  could  never  disclose.  For, 
however  common,  vulgar,  disappointing,  and  dishon- 
est Sam  might  be,  she  had  no  thought  of  betraying 
him. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 

# 

The  daughter  of  Danaus  may  have  deserved  to 
be  called  splendidly  mendacious  and  noble  for  all 
time,  but  the  daughter  of  James  Pennant  was  quite 
unable  to  flatter  herself  that  she  had  earned  any 
such  distinction  by  her  magnanimous  screening  of  a 
rather  mean  accomplice.  We  are  so  constituted — 
or,  at  all  events,  the  heroine  of  this  narrative  was 
so  constituted — that  the  pleasure  which  arises  out 
of  the  perpetration  of  a really  brilliant  and  artistic 
lie  is  apt  to  turn  sour  from  the  moment  that  that  lie 
is  loyally  accepted,  and  for  the  next  ten  days  or  so 
Cuckoo  lived  in  a sort  of  earthly  purgatory.  On 
the  one  hand,  her  father's  kindness  (for  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  respected  her  for  having  confessed  what 
he  believed  to  be  the  truth,  and  would  fain  have  re- 
mitted the  punishment  which  he  had  felt  bound  to 
inflict)  was  well-nigh  unendurable;  on  the  other,  it 
was  out  of  the  question  to  betray  Sam.  There  was, 
to  be  sure,  just  a chance  of  Sam's  being  brought  to 
recognise  the  course  imposed  upon  him  by  honour 
and  honesty,  and  she  overcame  her  repugnance  for 
that  juvenile  delinquent  so  far  as  to  address  him 
upon  the  subject  one  day.  But  Sam  sullenly  and  un- 
56 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE.  57 

hesitatingly  replied  that  he  would  see  her  jolly  well 
bio  wed  first,  and  then  he  wouldn’t! 

“ What!  go  and  give  myself  away  like  that  when 
there  ain’t  not  the  shadder  of  proof  agin’  me?  Not 
me!  You’d  better  blab  yourself,  if  you’re  pore-spir- 
ited enough  for  to  do  sech  a thing.  But  I’ll  bet  he 
don’t  believe  you,  and  I shan’t  admit  nothin’,  you 
may  take  yer  oath  o’  that!” 

Cuckoo  sighed  heavily  and  said  no  more.  Older 
persons  than  she  have  not  unfrequently  found  them- 
selves in  a dilemma  similar  to  hers,  and  we  have  the 
reports  of  numerous  causes  celehres  to  inform  us  how 
older  persons  almost  invariably  conceive  it  their  duty 
to  act  when  thus  disagreeably  situated;  but  Cuckoo’s 
uneducated  conscience  was  as  yet  proof  against  the 
anodynes  of  casuistry.  It  came  to  pass,  therefore, 
that  when  her  period  of  enforced  early  retirement 
to  bed  had  expired,  and  when  she  was  seated  at 
dessert  one  evening  with  the- dread  master  of  the 
house,  who  was  only  too  glad  to  have  her  back  with 
him  once  more  at  that  hour,  she  suddenly  burst 
forth,  in  a voice  which  the  beating  of  her  heart  ren- 
dered loud,  uncertain,  and  spasmodic: 

“ Father,  I want  to  tell  you  something,  but  I 
can’t  tell  you  unless  you  make  me  a promise 
first.” 

James  shook  his  head.  He  was  afraid  he  could 
not  undertake  to  make  any  promises  in  the  dark. 

“ But  please ! ” entreated  Cuckoo,  laying  her  hot 
little  hand  for  an  instant  upon  his.  Her  hand  was 
hot,  though  her  cheeks  were  white  and  her  eyes  un- 
naturally large.  “ It’s — it’s  about  a — a servant,” 


58 


THE  WIDOWER. 


she  went  on.  “ I want  yon  to  know,  but  the  servant 
mustn't  be  punished,  or  else  I can't  tell  you.". 

James  smiled.  “ My  dear  child,"  he  answered 
quite  kindly,  “ I think  perhaps  you  had  better  not 
tell  me.  Servants  are  apt  to  do  things  for  which 
one  may  have  to  punish  them  if  they  are  found  out; 
but  I don't  particularly  wish  to  hear  of  what  I can't 
discover  for  myself.  And  as  for  promising  in  ad- 
vance to  let  a culprit  off  scot-free,  that  is  impos- 
sible." 

Cuckoo  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  dropped 
her  head  upon  the  table,  and  sobbed  aloud.  Her 
father,  she  knew  by  experience,  meant  what  he  said 
and  said  what  he  meant;  since  he  had  called  it  im- 
possible to  comply  with  her  conditions,  impossible 
it  must  be,  and  there  was  no  hope  for  her. 

Presently  an  arm  was  placed  round  her  neck,  and 
a tender,  womanly  voice,  which  at  first  she  hardly 
recognised,  was  saying  close  to  her  ear:  “ Don't  cry 
so,  my  darling;  if  you  have  anything  on  your  mind, 
tell  me  what  it  is  and  then  you  will  feel  ever  so  much 
better.  You  mustn't  be  frightened  of  me." 

But  Cuckoo  shrank  away.  “ Oh,  don't,  father!  " 
she  gasped.  “You  wouldn't,  if  you  knew!  You 
can't  think  what  a — what  a beast  I am!  Oh,  if 
you  would  only  promise!  " she  concluded  despair- 
ingly. 

“ That  woman  Budgett  has  been  playing  some 
pranks  or  other,  I suppose,"  thought  James,  as  he  re- 
turned to  his  chair.  “ Well,  it's  a bad  precedent, 
but  I can't  allow  the  child  to  fret  herself  into  an  ill- 
ness." Aloud,  he  said:  “ All  right,  little  woman;  for 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


59 


this  once — but  only  this  once,  mind — IT1  promise 
to  forgive  the  servant.  Now  let  us  hear  all  about  it. 
I dare  say  it  is  nothing  so  very  terrible,  after  all.” 

Yet  when  he  had  heard  all  about  it  he  did  think 
it  rather  terrible,  and  was  obliged  to  own  that  he 
did.  Not,  of  course,  the  bare  facts  that  Cuckoo’s 
taste  for  Egyptian  tobacco  was  vicarious,  and  that  she 
had  accused  herself  in  order  to  shield  another;  these 
in  themselves  were  neither  unsatisfactory  nor  discred- 
itable. But  what  took  a man’s  breath  away  and 
caused  his  heart  to  sink  was  the  revelation  of  such 
an  amazing  talent  for  duplicity  on  the  part  of  one  so 
young. 

“ How  did  you  manage — who  can  ever  have 
taught  you — to  lie  like  that?”  he  ejaculated  in 
dismay. 

Cuckoo  replied  by  a despondent  gesture.  She 
did  not  know;  she  supposed  that  the  devil  must 
have  been  her  instructor.  For  the  rest,  she  was 
ready  to  bear  uncomplainingly  the  castigation  which 
she  had  earned.  “ I don’t  mind  being  flayed  alive!  ” 
she  declared,  incorrigibly  exaggerative  still,  notwith- 
standing her  unfeigned  remorse  and  repentance. 

What  is  likely  enough  is  that  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred any  reasonable  form  of  physical  punishment 
to  her  father’s  blank  distress  and  ultimate  admission 
that  he  had  no  idea  what  to  do  with  her.  That 
seemed  to  make  her  very  bad,  indeed — so  bad  that 
it  became  almost  a question  whether  she  would  not 
have  done  better  to  drown  herself  in  the  lake  or 
hang  herself  upon  one  of  the  apple  trees  in  the  or- 
chard than  to  bring,  by  the  confession  which  she  had 
5 


60 


THE  WIDOWER. 


made,  eternal  disgrace  upon  the  family  name  and 
honour.  James  gave  her  to  understand  that  no  or- 
dinary punishment  could  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  case. 

“ It  isn’t  a thing  to  he  angry  or  to  scold  about/’ 
he  said;  “ it’s  a disease  which  must  be  fought  against, 
and,  I hope,  conquered.  But  whether  I have  it  in 
my  power  to  lay  my  hand  upon  the  remedies  that 
are  wanted  seems  to  me  very  doubtful.  I thought 
I had  done  and  said  my  utmost.” 

He  probably  had,  and  his  failure  was  beyond 
question.  After  a fashion  Cuckoo  understood  him, 
but  he  did  not  at  all  understand  her,  nor  did  he  give 
her  any  encouragement  to  explain  herself.  The  dis- 
play of  love  and  sympathy  to  which  he  had  been 
moved  by  her  tears  had  passed  away,  leaving  him 
cold,  perplexed,  regretfully  compassionate,  hopeless- 
ly unapproachable.  Presently  he  dismissed  the 
child,  remarking  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  to 
bed,  assuring  her  that  she  might  rely  upon  his  word 
with  regard  to  Sam,  and  recommending  her  to  add 
a special  petition  to  her  evening  prayers  upon  the 
subject  of  her  besetting  sin.  He  had  never  been 
what  is  commonly  called  a pious  man,  but  he  be- 
lieved, amongst  other  things,  in  the  efficacy  of 
prayer,  and  since  the  death  of  his  wife  (who  had 
believed  in  remarkably  little)  Cuckoo’s  religious  edu- 
cation and  practices  had  not  been  neglected. 

Budgett,  on  being  informed  by  her  awe-struck 
charge  of  what  had  occurred,  proved  refreshingly 
human.  She  was  as  horrified,  as  abusive,  as  eager 
for  severe  pains  and  penalties  as  could  be  wished. 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


61 


and  so  certain  was  she  that  these  latter  would  in  due 
course  be  inflicted,  that  Cuckoo  ended,  after  all,  by 
sobbing  herself  to  sleep  quite  comfortably. 

James,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a bad  night.  All 
his  life  long  there  had  been  certain  offences  which 
he  had  found  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  forgive,  and 
with  which  he  had  no  notion  of  how  to  deal.  He 
would  rather  that  Cuckoo  had  been  anything 
than  a liar — possibly  even  a congenital  liar! — and 
he  perceived  that  homilies  upon  the  infamy  of  lying 
were  not  likely  to  turn  out  efficacious.  She  had, 
to  be  sure,  made  a clean  breast  of  her  guilt;  but  what 
security  had  he  against  a repetition  of  it?  His  con- 
clusion— a conclusion  to  which  he  had  been  forced 
on  many  previous  occasions — was  the  mortifying  one 
that  he  was  unfit  for  the  task  which  he  had  taken  in 
hand.  Thus,  although  he  was  surprised  at  the  sug- 
gestion coming  from  that  quarter,  he  did  not  cry 
out  against  it  when,  on  the  following  morning, 
Cuckoo  diffidently  said: 

“ Father,  don’t  you  think  I had  better  be  sent 
to  school?” 

“ Yes,  if  there  were  public  schools  for  girls  I 
should  say  so,”  he  replied.  “ You  would  learn  some- 
thing there  which  I am  afraid  I can’t  teach  you.” 

“ It  might  make  me  different,”  observed  Cuckoo 
dejectedly. 

James  nodded.  “ I suppose  it  is  to  a great  extent 
a question  of  discipline  and  surroundings,”  he  said. 
“ Unfortunately,  the  sort  of  training  that  is  wanted 
is  not,  so  far  as  I know,  to  be  obtained  at  seminaries 
for  young  ladies.” 


62 


THE  WIDOWER. 


He  spoke  to  her  in  a detached,  dispassionate 
style,  as  though  she  were  some  baffling  species  of 
malady;  he  did  not  even  hint  at  chastisement,  nor 
had  he  a word  of  blame  or  praise  or  pity  for  her. 
So  the  child,  who  was  conscious  of  having  made  a 
heroic  proposal  (for  the  idea  of  going  to  school  hap- 
pened to  be  particularly  repugnant  to  her),  left  his 
presence  chilled  and  discouraged. 

Mr.  Andrews,  on  being  consulted,  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  from  the  educational  point  of  view 
schools  must  be  considered  preferable  to  private  tui- 
tion. He  had  found  his  pupil  exceptionally  bright 
and  intelligent,  but  he  could  not  say  that  she  had 
shown  much  disposition  to  apply  herself  systematic- 
ally to  study.  Ho  doubt  she  stood  in  need  of  the  stim- 
ulus of  emulation  which  we  all  more  or  less  require, 
and  which  is  incompatible  with  solitude.  As  for 
moral  influences — ah,  well,  that  of  course  was  a very 
difficult  question.  It  was  said  that  there  were  girls* 
schools  which  were  very  far  from  being  satisfactory 
in  that  respect;  but  then,  again,  he  had  heard  others 
spoken  of  in  the  highest  terms.  It  seemed  a pity, 
he  quite  agreed,  that  girls  could  not  be  brought  up 
with  the  ideas  which  it  was  easy  enough  to  thrash 
into  their  brothers;  still,  since  they  were  not  boys — 
well,  one  could  only  assume  that  Providence  had 
created  them  for  other  purposes  and  with  other  idio- 
syncrasies, you  know. 

Evidently  not  much  practical  help  was  to  be 
looked  for  from  this  reverend  counsellor;  so  James 
gave  orders  for  his  portmanteau  to  be  packed,  and 
went  up  to  London  to  see  Lady  Wardlaw,  who,  when 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


63 


all  was  said,  had  a clear  and  sensible  head  upon  her 
shoulders.  And  her  ladyship,  by  whom  he  was 
warmly  welcomed,  responded  to  his  query  without  a 
moments  hesitation. 

“ By  all  means  send  the  child  to  school;  much 
the  best  thing  you  can  do!  I should  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  recommending  it  in  the  first  instance, 
only  I knew  you  wouldn’t  listen  to  me.  I haven’t 
forgotten  you;  I have  been  making  inquiries  about 
governesses;  but  there  are  objections  to  every  single 
one  that  I have  heard  of  up  to  now.  A young 
woman  would  be  suing  you  for  breach  of  promise 
before  you  knew  where  you  were,  and  the  others  seem 
to  be  either  old  sillies,  who  would  be  ridden  over 
rough  shod  by  their  pupil,  or  termagants,  who  would 
probably  insist  upon  taking  the  head  of  the  table 
when  you  had  people  staying  with  you.” 

J ames  sighed.  “ Besides,  I doubt  whether,  in 
any  case,  a governess  would  answer  my  purpose,” 
he  observed.  “ I might  perhaps  accomplish  it  for 
myself  if  I had  the  indispensable  knack,  but  I see 
now  that  I haven’t.” 

“ Already?  What  has  the  young  lady  been  doing 
to  bring  that  wholesome  conviction  home  to  you?” 

James  was  rather  disinclined  to  tell.  Fond  as 
he  was  of  Jane  Wardlaw,  he  had  an  impression — a 
mistaken  one,  as  it  happened — that  she  was  not  par- 
ticularly fond  of  children,  and  he  suspected  that  she 
would  make  scant  allowance  for  delinquencies  of 
which  she  herself,  with  her  natural  straightforward 
character,  was  probably  incapable. 

“ One  soon  finds  out  what  one  can  do  and  what 


64: 


THE  WIDOWER. 


one  can’t,”  he  answered  evasively.  “ The  number 
of  things  which  I can’t  do  is  so  large  that  the  dis- 
covery of  an  addition  to  them  scarcely  astonishes 
me.” 

“ You  will  be  agreeably  astonished,  my  dear 
James,”  returned  Lgdy  Wardlaw,  “ when  you  begin, 
just  by  way  of  a change,  to  try  doing  possible 
things.” 

Amongst  other  possibilities,  that  of  a distin- 
guished political  career  was,  according  to  her,  well 
within  his  reach,  and  she  required  no  encourage- 
ment to  dilate  upon  that  subject.  At  other  possibil- 
ities, which  seemed  to  her  equally  attainable  and  not 
less  desirable,  she  hinted  with  discreet  ambiguity, 
and  James  let  her  talk,  glad  enough  to  be  spared 
further  discussion  of  a problem  which  he  had  trav- 
elled up  from  Wiltshire  on  purpose  to  discuss.  “ I 
might  have  known,”  he  thought  to  himself,  “ what 
Jane’s  point  of  view  would  be.” 

But  although  he  was  no  longer  disposed  to  con- 
sult Lady  Wardlaw,  and  although  it  w^as  little  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  custom  to  consult  anybody,  he  felt 
impelled  to  ask  for  one  small  piece  of  information 
from  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant,  whom  he  encountered 
in  Berkeley  Square  the  next  day,  she  being  on  her 
way  home  from  Brighton,  whither  her  convalescent 
daughter  had  been  sent  to  recruit. 

“Bless  your  soul,  yes!”  she  promptly  said,  in 
answer  to  James’s  query;  “ all  children  tell  fibs 
sooner  or  later — tell  them  uncommonly  well,  too, 
as  a general  rule.  They  don’t  think  they  are  going 
to  be  found  out,  you  see,  which  gives  them  confi- 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


65 


dence.  But  they  always  are  found  out — at  least 
that  has  been  my  experience.” 

This  was  precisely  what  James  had  hoped  to  hear 
from  the  competent  mother  of  a family. 

“•  And  when  you  find  them  out,  what  do  you 
do?”  he  inquired. 

“ Smack  them,”  was  Mrs.  Arthur's  succinct  and 
decisive  response. 

“H'm! — yes.  And  does  that  cure  them?” 

The  good-humoured,  red-faced  woman  laughed. 
“Well,”  she  answered,  “it  teaches  them  what  they 
have  to  expect,  anyhow.”  She  added,  with  a not 
unkindly  glance  at  James's  sombre,  perturbed  coun- 
tenance, “ You  mustn't  expect  to  discover  a cure  for 
original  sin,  you  know,  and  you  had  better  not  take 
things  too  tragically.  If  you  want  my  opinion,  I 
agree  with  Jane.  School  rather  than  home.  In 
point  of  fact,  situated  as  you  are,  anything  rather 
than  home.  It  sounds  uncivil  to  say  so,  but  I don't 
mean  it  uncivilly.  Circumstances  are  to  blame,  not 
you.” 

Such  advice  was  realty  honest  and  disinterested 
on  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant's  part,  for  she  could  not 
but  be  aware  that  Cuckoo's  removal  must  have  the 
effect  of  bringing  her  brother-in-law  several  strides 
nearer  to  that  second  marriage,  which  would  prob- 
ably deprive  Fitzroy  of  a substantial  estate;  but  she 
comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that,  in  any  case, 
Jane  Wardlaw  would  have  brought  about  the  inev- 
itable some  day  or  other.  It  wras  perhaps  just  as 
well  that  matters  should  be  precipitated,  and  that 
one  should  know  for  certain  how  one  stood.  Besides, 


66 


THE  WIDOWER. 


she  felt  a genuine  compassion  for  the  poor  little  girl, 
who  seemed  to  be  in  danger  of  falling  a victim  to 
masculine  lack  of  comprehension. 

To  end  up  with  came  a few  words  of  recommen- 
dation from  Sir  William  Wardlaw  which  struck 
James  as  having  something  in  them. 

" You  are  in  a difficulty  about  Miss  Cuckoo,  I 
hear,”  Sir  William  said.  "Well,  Fm  no  authority 
upon  the  bringing  up  of  the  young,  but  I know  what 
I should  do  with  her  if  she  belonged  to  me.  I 
should  send  her  to  Leipzig.” 

"Why  to  Leipzig?”  James  asked. 

" Oh,  only  because  she  is  musical,  and  because  it 
seems  a pity  that  she  should  be  taught  music  in  the 
wrong  way.  Anyhow,  it  would  be  an  excuse.” 

"An  excuse  for  what?” 

" For  not  keeping  her  at  home,  which,  I imagine, 
is  what  is  really  wanted.” 

That  was  certainly  not  what  James  would  have 
wanted  had  he  consulted  his  own  inclinations,  but 
he  had  lost  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  his  own  in- 
clinations, while  he  had  never  had  much  in  the  prob- 
able results  of  English  boarding-school  methods. 
" I am  evidently  no  good;  it  looks  as  if  a governess 
would  be  no  good,  and  there  are  risks  connected  with 
school  companionship  which  one  doesn’t  care  to 
run,”  was  what  he  thought.  "The  alternative  of  a 
compromise  remains,  and  why  shouldn’t  it  take  the 
form  of  Madame  Voisin?” 

Madame  Voisin  was  a retired  pianist,  whom  he 
had  known  for  many  years,  and  who  had  enjoyed  a 
certain  celebrity  before  rheumatic  gout  and  stiffened 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


67 


finger  joints  had  forced  her  to  quit  the  lucrative 
platform.  She  resided,  indeed,  in  Paris,  not  in 
Leipzig,  but  she  had  learned  all  that  Germany  could 
teach  her  in  the  days  when  French  musical  students 
could  still  avail  themselves  of  Teutonic  instruction. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  a most  amiable  and  respectable 
person,  eking  out  her  slender  means  by  receiving 
occasional  boarders,  amongst  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
James  Pennant  had  more  than  once  been  included 
during  periods  of  enforced  economy,  so  that  there 
were  good  grounds  for  believing  that  she  would  not 
decline  the  proposal  which  was  despatched  to  her  by 
that  evening’s  post. 

In  point  of  fact,  she  accepted  it  with  alacrity  and 
with  profuse  gratitude  for  the  liberal  terms  offered, 
and  thus  Cuckoo  was  informed  of  the  destiny  ,which 
awaited  her  immediately  after  her  father’s  return  to 
Abbotswell. 

“ It  may  not  be  what  you  would  like  best,  nor 
perhaps  what  I should  have  chosen  for  you  if  I had 
felt  free  to  choose,”  he  said;  “ but  I don’t  think  you 
will  be  unhappy  in  Paris,  and  I have  arranged  for 
Budgett  to  go  with  you.  You  will  attend  classes, 
Madame  Yoisin  will  see  to  your  musical  education, 
you  wull  keep  up  your  French,  and — and  in  the  holi- 
days I hope  we  shall  have  some  pleasant  times  to- 
gether.” 

The  child  received  this  intimation  submissively, 
being  neither  elated  nor  dismayed  by  it.  She  un- 
derstood that  she  was  about  to  be  dismissed  from 
home  because  her  conduct  had  merited  banishment. 
She  was  rather  glad  that  she  was  not  going  to  school, 


68 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  very  glad  that  she  was  not  to  be  separated  from 
Budgett.  If  she  shed  some  bitter  tears  in  private 
over  the  presumed  loss  of  her  father’s  affection,  James 
did  not  suspect  them.  Free  use  of  soap  is  an  excellent 
remedy  for  red  eyelids,  and  Cuckoo  (who  was  apt 
to  cry  upon  slight  provocation)  then  and  thereafter 
soaped  her  eyelids  pretty  frequently.  We  must  all 
needs  do  the  same,  in  a literal  or  metaphorical  sense, 
unless  we  wish  existence  to  become  far  too  emotional 
a business  for  everyday  purposes. 

The  leave-taking  which  ensued  in  Paris  a few 
weeks  later  between  these  two  rather  forlorn  and 
lonely  persons  was  not  wholly  unmarked  by  emo- 
tional demonstration,  although  only  a few  words  were 
exchanged  on  the  occasion.  At  the  last  moment, 
when  worthy  Madame  Yoisin  had  left  them  in  sole 
occupancy  of  her  stiff  little  salon , Cuckoo  felt  im- 
pelled to  say,  with  a sort  of  gasp: 

“ Father,  I’m  sorry  about  the  cigarettes.  You 
believe  I’m  sorry,  don’t  you?  ” 

So  then  James  kissed  her  and  answered  that  they 
w^ould  think  no  more  about  that  distressing  episode. 
Also  he  undertook  to  give  her  love  to  Fitzroy,  and 
promised  that,  if  it  could  be  managed,  she  should 
see  her  cousin  again  during  the  summer  holidays. 
Presently  he  went  away,  with  the  memory  of  a hug 
bestowed  upon  him  by  two  small,  soft  arms,  and 
with  a pain  at  his  heart  which  partook  a little  of  the 
nature  of  self-reproach. 

“ Poor  Ada  would  call  me  a brute  if  she  knew,” 
he  sighed;  “ but  I believe,  all  the  same,  that  it  is  the 
right  thing  to  do.” 


AN  ADMITTED  FAILURE. 


69 


Budgett,  exultant  at  being  left  in  charge  and  re- 
solved to  maintain  the  dignity  of  her  position  against 
any  old  Frenchwoman,  endeavoured  to  cheer  up  the 
disconsolate  Cuckoo. 

“Now,  my  dear,  we’re  going  to  be  comfortable 
and  enjoy  ourselves,”  said  she.  “ As  for  your  papa, 
it’s  easy  to  guess  what  he  means  to  do — and  really 
I can’t  blame  him.  Only  when  he  gets  his  new  wife 
she  shall  give  no  orders  to  you  nor  me,  that  you  may 
depend!  ” 

“ Budgie,”  was  Cuckoo’s  thankless  reply,  “ you 
are  a pig!  ” 

And  after  that  unladylike  ejaculation  she  lifted 
up  her  voice  and  wept. 


i 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 

Those  amongst  us  who  have  reached  or  passed 
middle  age  are  able  to  perceive,  on  casting  a back- 
ward glance,  that  our  several  careers  have  divided 
themselves  into  sections  of  which  the  importance 
in  no  way  corresponds  with  the  length,  and  (in  the 
event  of  our  having  kicked  up  enough  dust  during 
our  residence  upon  the  earth/s  surface  for  somebody 
to  think  a printed  record  of  that  process  likely  to 
pay  expenses)  to  foresee  exactly  what  periods  the 
skilled  biographer  will  airily  dismiss  in  a paragraph 
or  two.  Now,  if  the  present  modest  work  were  a 
Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  James  Pennant,  P.  C., 
M.  P.,  the  eight  years,  more  or  less,  which  succeeded 
that  journey  to  Paris,  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter, 
would  demand  full  and  careful  treatment;  for  of 
course  a man  does  not  rise  from  the  lowest  to  the 
highest  rungs  of  the  Parliamentary  ladder  without 
feats  and  adventures  which  explain  his  upward  prog- 
ress. But  since  it  has  a much  less  famous,  and  pos- 
sibly less  interesting,  personage  for  its  subject,  a 
large  skip  at  this  point  stands  in  need  of  no  apology. 

It  may  even  be  that  Cuckoo  herself,  when  she 
thinks  nowadays — with  that  queer  little  smile  of 
70 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


71 


hers,  half  humorous,  half  pathetic — of  the  long  edu- 
cational years  spent  in  France,  Germany,  and  Italy, 
finds  them  curiously  foreshortened.  Kind  Madame 
Voisin,  who  will  always  be  associated  in  her  memory 
with  the  smell  of  wood  ashes  and  waxed  parquets 
and  matutinal  cafe  au  lait;  the  fluent  professors  at 
the  cours  which  she  attended  wdiile  in  Paris;  crabbed 
old  Dr.  Fliigelschlager,  the  renowned  Stadtmusi - 
kus  of  the  small  German  city  to  which  she  was  sub- 
sequently removed,  who  alternated  between  hurling 
opprobrious  epithets  at  her  and  enthusiastically  kiss- 
ing her  talented  little  hands;  Signor  Bentivoglio, 
the  rotund  Florentine  maestro , who  at  a later  date 
did  his  best  with  a voice  of  small  compass,  but  was 
fain  to  admit,  raising  his  shoulders  and  spreading 
out  his  arms  apologetically,  that  not  very  much  was 
to  be  made  out  of  it — all  these  and  many  other  figures 
may  have  lost  sharpness  of  outline  when  surveyed 
across  the  intervening  barrier  of  briefer  and  more 
exciting  experiences  than  are  connected  with  their 
names. 

Nevertheless,  those  eight  years  were,  upon  the 
whole,  happy  ones  for  her,  and  by  no  means  unhappy 
for  the  Right  Honourable  J ames.  While  on  his  way 
toward  becoming  Right  Honourable  that  statesman 
found  that  he  had  plenty  of  work  to  do — work  of 
which  he  grew  enamoured  from  the  moment  that 
he  realized  his  capacity  for  doing  it  extremely  well. 
His  skill  in  debate  was  not  long  in  meeting  with 
recognition  and  reward;  he  was  offered  a subordinate 
post  in  a Conservative  administration  almost  before 
he  could  be  said  to  have  won  his  spurs,  and  thence- 


72 


THE  WIDOWER. 


forth  he  advanced  to  fame  with  a rapidity  which 
partially  consoled  Lady  Wardlaw  for  his  obstinate  in- 
difference to  the  charms  of  various  ladies  who  were 
well  fitted,  in  her  opinion,  to  share  his  distinguished 
lot.  After  all,  he  got  on  better  in  private  life  than 
might  have  been  anticipated;  he  did  not — and  in- 
deed could  not — affect  the  habits  of  a hermit.  He 
dined  out  a good  deal  when  in  London,  stayed  with 
his  friends  in  the  country,  and  had  occasional  house- 
parties  at  Abbotswell,  either  Lady  Wardlaw  or  his 
sister-in-law  kindly  officiating  as  hostess  on  such  oc- 
casions. AVhen  the  House  rose  in  late  summer,  he 
invariably  went  off  to  join  Cuckoo  abroad  and  travel 
with  her  through  some  of  the  less  frequented  dis- 
tricts of  Europe.  He  was  wont  to  say  that  that  gave 
him  a more  enjoyable  holiday  than  the  alternative 
of  Wiltshire  could  have  done,  while  Cuckoo,  who  was 
growing  up  into  a highly  accomplished  young  lady, 
was  not  eager  to  return  to  England  until  her  educa- 
tion should  be  pronounced  complete  and  her  debut 
in  society  be  imminent. 

It  was  on  a certain  November  afternoon  that 
Lady  Wardlaw,  who  had  come  up  to  London  for  a 
week’s  shopping,  received  an  unexpected  visit  from 
her  cousin,  and  was  informed  by  him  that  Abbots- 
well was  at  length  about  to  welcome  the  future  mis- 
tress of  the  house. 

“ I wish  it  were,”  she  returned,  laughing;  “ but 
you  are  past  praying  for,  I know;  I have  given  you 
up  as  a bad  job.  As  for  the  child ” 

“ She  isn’t  a child  any  more,”  interpolated  J ames 
a little  ruefully. 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


1% 

“I  suppose  not,  and  for  that  reason  you  must 
expect  her  to  be  the  mistress  of  somebody  else’s  house 
within  a year.” 

Not  quite  so  soon  as  that,  James  hoped. 

“ Oh,  you  had  better  be  prepared  for  the  prob-» 
able  consequences  of  a first  season,  spent  under  the 
wing  of  an  elderly  matchmaker  like  me,  espe- 
cially if  she  is  pretty.  By  the  way,  what  is  she  like 
nowadays?  ” 

“ It  is  so  difficult  to  say.  I want  you  and  William 
to  come  down  to  us  some  time  before  Christmas,  if 
you  will,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  form  your  own 
opinion.  No,  I don’t  think  Cuckoo  is  pretty,  but 
I should  say  that  she  was  attractive.  Yes,  I think 
you  would  call  her  attractive.” 

“ You  are  a queer  creature,  James,”  remarked 
Lady  Wardlaw. 

“ So  you  are  fond  of  telling  me,  Jane;  but  I 
don’t  strike  myself  as  corresponding  to  that  descrip- 
tion. Perhaps  what  you  mean  is  that  I am  unnatu- 
rally cold.” 

“ Well,  you  choose  to  talk  as  if  you  were.  It 
isn’t  a very  good  habit,  you  know.  Not  that  it  mat- 
ters with  me,  because  I am  perfectly  well  aware  that 
that  child  is  the  apple  of  your  eye;  but  young  people 
are  rather  apt  to  assume  that  their  elders  are  what 
they  appear  to  be.  However,  I dare  say  you  and  she 
understand  one  another.” 

James  made  no  reply,  but  took  his  chin  between 
his  forefinger  and  thumb,  supporting  his  left  elbow 
with  his  right  hand,  while  he  gazed  into  space;  that 
was  the  attitude  which  he  most  often  adopted  in  the 


74 


THE  WIDOWER. 


House  of  Commons.  Eight  years,  which  had  left 
distinct  traces  of  their  passage  upon  his  companion’s 
face  and  figure,  had  not  perceptibly  aged  him.  With 
his  slim,  spare  person  and  his  black  hair,  in  which 
only  a few  white  threads  were  beginning  to  show 
themselves,  he  might,  at  forty-two,  have  still  passed 
for  a young  man,  and  in  fact  the  political  newspapers 
never  failed  to  call  him  so.  But  youth  and  he  had 
parted  company  at  a period  now  so  remote  that  he 
had  half  forgotten  it,  and  that  was  why  Jane  Ward- 
law’s  remark  rendered  him  pensive. 

“ Well,”  he  observed  presently,  without  much  ap- 
parent relevance,  “ I surrendered  my  educational  the- 
ories, anyhow.” 

“ As  far  as  I ever  understood  what  they  were, 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  with  them,”  Lady 
Wardlaw  said.  “ No  imaginative  system  of  educa- 
tion can  convert  women  into  men.” 

“ It  is  imaginable,  though — at  least  I can  imagine 
it — that  a woman  might  be  educated  into  looking  at 
life  from  a man’s  point  of  view.  However,  as  I say, 
I abandoned  a task  to  which  I was  obviously  unequal, 
and  I am  not  dissatisfied  with  results,  taking  them 
all  round.” 

Mr.  Pennant  would  doubtless  have  been  a some- 
what unreasonable  man  had  he  felt  dissatisfied  with 
the  charming  little  person  whom  he  met  at  the 
Charing  Cross  Station  that  same  evening,  and  who 
flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  before  she  was  out  of 
the  railway  carriage.  If  Cuckoo  possessed  no  other 
claims  to  beauty,  she  had,  at  all  events,  those  which 
are  inseparable  from  youth — good  health  and  good 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


75 


spirits,  added  to  which  she  wras  dressed,  as  she  had 
always  been  for  some  years  past,  in  perfect  taste  and 
in  an  admirably  fitting  costume.  That  she  looked 
more  like  a Frenchwoman  than  an  Englishwoman 
was  perhaps  scarcely  surprising,  and  indeed  her  first 
words  were  spoken  in  a foreign  tongue. 

“ Enfin , nous  voila!  une  traversee  atroce!  Re - 
gardez  done  cette  malheureuse  qui  persiste  d avoir  le 
mal  de  mer  en  plein  wagon  de  premiere  classe!” 

J ames  always  disapproved  of  and  discouraged 
Cuckoo’s  tendency  to  break  out  into  French;  but  he 
pardoned  her  on  this  occasion,  giving  her  credit  for 
a humane  desire  to  spare  the  feelings  of  the  afflicted 
Budgett,  who  rose,  yellow  and  forlorn,  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  railway  carriage  in  which  she  had  been 
reclining,  to  groan  tragically: 

“ Never  again,  my  dear,  no,  not  if  you  w^as  to 
offer  me  a king’s  ransom!  Fm  on  my  own  side  of 
the  English  Channel  now,  and  on  my  own  side  I will 
stay,  please  Heaven,  for  the  rest  of  my  life!  ” 

James  had  more  than  once  felt  tempted  to  offer 
Budgett,  if  not  a king’s  ransom,  at  least  a hand- 
some retiring  pension,  for  neither  her  temper  nor 
her  manners  had  improved  with  lapse  of  time.  But 
he  believed  the  woman  to  be  trustworthy,  and  Cuckoo 
liked  her,  and  she  had  now  become  so  established  an 
institution  that  she  could  hardly  be  taken  at  her 
word  when  she  gave  warning — which  she  did,  on  an 
average,  two  or  three  times  a year. 

“ Cheer  up,  Budgie,”  said  Cuckoo  reassuringly; 
“ the  Wander jahre  have  come  to  an  end  for  good 
and  all.  One  doesn’t  quite  know  whether  one  is  glad 
6 


76 


THE  WIDOWER. 


or  sorry,”  she  added,  turning  to  her  father,  who  ob- 
served that  he  knew  who  was  glad. 

“ It  is  nice  of  you  to  say  so,”  returned  the  girl, 
giving  his  arm  a little  squeeze.  “ Well,  if  you’re 
glad  so  am  I — though  I am  not  sure  that  we 
ought  to  be.  There’s  a sort  of  a seriousness  about 
this,  isn’t  there?” 

James  nodded.  “ Yes,  but  not  necessarily  a dis- 
agreeable sort,  I hope.” 

He  put  her  into  a hansom  and  seated  himself 
beside  her,  leaving  the  man  servant  whom  he  had 
brought  with  him  to  look  after  Budgett  and  the  lug- 
gage. Glancing  at  her,  he  mentally  recanted  what 
he  had  said  to  Lady  Wardlaw.  There  were  moments 
when  Cuckoo  really  did  look  quite  pretty,  and  this 
was  one  of  them.  She  seemed,  too,  to  be  pleased  at 
being  with  him  once  more;  he  thought  he  might 
venture  to  flatter  himself  that  pleasure  on  that  score, 
not  merely  a novel  sense  of  emancipation  and  im- 
portance, accounted  for  the  brightness  of  her  shin- 
ing eyes. 

“ We  are  going  straight  home,  aren’t  we?  ” she 
asked  presently.  “ That  stupid  old  Parliament  isn’t 
sitting  now  to  keep  you  in  London,  is  it?  Or  must 
you  be  in  London  to  attend  to  official  botherations, 
whether  Parliament  is  sitting  or  not?  ” 

“ The  stupid  old  Parliament,  as  you  call  it,  is  en- 
joying a well-earned  holiday,”  James  replied.  “As 
for  me,  I was  relieved  of  the  cares  of  office  rather 
more  than  a year  ago.” 

“ Of  course  you  were!  I ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  forgotten  that  the  wrong  people 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


77 


are  in  power,  and  that  the  empire  is  in  danger  of 
being  betrayed  to  its  destruction.  But  I am  going 
to  begin  reading  the  newspapers  carefully  now. 
Only  give  me  time,  and  Fll  promise  not  to  disgrace 
you  by  my  ignorance  of  politics  when  I dawn  upon 
an  admiring  world.” 

James  was  of  opinion  that  there  was  no  need  for 
young  ladies  to  be  well  posted  with  regard  to  matters 
of  political  controversy.  He  remarked  that  these 
were  seldom  interesting,  save  to  the  persons  who 
took  an  active  part  therein. 

“ But  I want  to  be  interested  in  everything  that 
interests  you,”  the  girl  declared,  turning  quickly 
round  upon  him  with  the  combined  frown  and 
smile  which  he  had  learned  to  associate  with  her, 
and  which  perhaps  formed  one  of  her  attractions  in 
his  eyes. 

“ Then  you  had  better  take  a profound  interest 
in  yourself,  my  dear,”  he  returned,  laughing. 

Cuckoo  nodded.  “ C’est  entendu!  Ce  ne  sera 
pas  trop  difficile , du  reste.  But  I mean  to  bring  an 
intelligent  curiosity  to  bear  upon  public  affairs  as 
well,  not  to  mention  Abbotswell — poor,  dear  old 
Abbotswell,  which  I believe  I love  already  more  than 
you  do,  though  I shall  arrive  there  as  a stranger.” 

It  might  safely  be  prophesied  of  Cuckoo  that  she 
would  not  long  remain  a stranger  to  any  place  or  any 
person — unless,  indeed,  by  an  ironical  freak  of  Fate, 
an  exception  had  to  be  made  in  the  case  of  her  own 
father.  That  these  two  did  not  altogether  under- 
stand one  another  each  of  them  was  regretfully 
aware;  yet  they  were  good  friends,  and  hoped  to  be 


7 8 


THE  WIDOWER. 


better  friends,  now  that  they  were  to  be  separated 
no  more. 

As  for  Abbots  well,  whither  Mr.  and  Miss  Pen- 
nant journeyed  on  the  succeeding  day,  its  conquest 
proved  facile  and  rapid.  The  servants,  the  neigh- 
bours, the  tenants  surrendered  at  once  to  the  easy 
familiarity  and  charm  of  manner  which  rendered  the 
squire’s  daughter  such  a very  different  kind  of  per- 
son from  the  squire;  even  the  crusty  old  housekeep- 
er, who  had  made  ready  for  battle,  was  fain  to  accept 
terms  of  peace;  while  Sam — now  third  gardener  and 
a young  man  of  ferocious  shyness  and  taciturnity — 
though  thrown  into  deep  confusion  on  being  re- 
minded of  that  melancholy  episode  of  the  filched 
cigarettes,  ended  by  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  and 
blurting  out: 

“ Well,  miss,  I ought  to  have  had  a proper  good 
hiding,  and  that’s  the  truth.  But  this  was  the  way 
of  it:  You  see  I knowed  as  I shouldn’t  never  be  for- 
given, and  it  would  be  a queer  customer  as  wouldn’t 
be  willing  to  forgive  you  anything.” 

This  graceful  compliment  on  the  part  of  Sam — 
which  left  him  very  red  in  the  face — expressed  the 
views  of  many  excellent  folks  whose  respect  James 
Pennant  possessed  without  having  precisely  won 
their  affection.  Cuckoo  had  taken  them  by  storm 
as  a child;  she  took  them  by  storm  for  the  second 
time  now  that  she  was  a young  woman,  and  the 
mere  fact  of  her  presence  in  that  habitually  silent 
and  somewhat  mournful  mansion  made  all  its  deni- 
zens feel  younger  and  happier.  James  had  pur- 
chased a new  grand  piano  for  her  use,  and  was 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


19 


pleased  to  hear  from  her  that  it  was  a splendid  in- 
strument. After  the  first  evening,  however,  she  de- 
clined to  perform  upon  it  while  he  was  in  the  room. 

“ There!  that  will  do,”  she  exclaimed,  jumping 
up  in  the  midst  of  a composition  by  Brahms,  which 
obviously  said  nothing  to  him.  “ You  don’t  like 
that  kind  of  noise,  do  you?” 

“ I am  afraid,”  James  confessed,  “ that  I can’t 
pretend  to  be  a judge  of  music,  but  it  certainly 
seems  to  me  that  you  play  very  well.” 

“ Oh,  yes,”  the  girl  agreed,  laughing,  “ I play 
pretty  well;  all  things  considered,  it  would  be  rather 
odd  if  I didn’t.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  bored.  When  Sir  William  Wardlaw  comes 
I will  go  through  my  tricks  for  his  benefit,  and  I 
trust  he  will  have  the  good  manners  to  clap  his 
hands.” 

Sir  William  when  he  came  did  more  than  that; 
he  skipped  about  the  room  in  an  appreciative  ecstasy. 
Laying  an  eager  hand  upon  his  host’s  shoulder,  he 
exclaimed:  “ My  dear  fellow,  didn’t  I tell  you  so! 
I don’t  say  it  to  exalt  myself  unduly,  but  I really 
have  a nose  for  these  things.  Let  me  inform  you,  if 
you  don’t  know  it — and  not  for  one  moment  do  I 
suppose  you  do! — that  you  are  the  father  of  a young 
lady  who  could  make  a fortune  in  a few  years  by 
giving  public  recitals.  That  doesn’t  strike  you  as 
anything  very  extraordinary,  eh?  Well,  it’s  so  ex- 
traordinary as  to  be  absolutely  without  a precedent 
in  all  my  experience,  which  hasn’t  been  a short  one. 
Oh,  I’m  not  talking  about  technique — hundreds  and 
thousands  of  obscurities  acquire  an  admirable  tech - 


80 


THE  WIDOWER. 


nique.  It’s  her  touch,  it’s  her  phrasing,  above  all 
it’s  her  distinctly  personal  rendering  which  amounts 
to  nothing  short  of  revelation.  Upon  my  word, 
James,  I could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  wish  that  she 
would  do  something  to  make  you  cut  her  off  with  a 
sixpence!  That  would  give  her  the  chance  of  which  * 
it  seems  almost  a sin  that  she  should  he  deprived.” 

Lady  Wardlaw,  herself  no  mean  musician,  was  a 
little  less  enthusiastic,  but  she  acknowledged  that 
no  amateur  of  her  acquaintance  could  hold  a candle 
to  this  amazing  Cuckoo.  She  was  also — setting  artis- 
tic capacities  aside — greatly  pleased  with  the  girl, 
and  repeated  her  prediction  that  Miss  Pennant  wmild 
not  remain  Miss  Pennant  long. 

“ One  doesn’t  ask  one’s  self  whether  she  is  a 
beauty  or  not;  one  simply  recognises  that  she  is 
adorable.  William,  as  you  see,  is  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  her  already,  and  the  young  ones  of 
course  will  follow  suit.  Didn’t  you  say  that  you  ex- 
pected Harriet  and  her  girls  in  a few  days?  "What 
about  her  son?  ” 

James  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  “ I confess 
that  Fitzroy  is  to  follow,”  he  answered;  “ but  Heaven 
is  my  witness  that  I have  no  designs  upon  the  poor 
young  man.  I didn’t  even  invite  him.  It  was  his 
mother  who  gave  me  a hint  by  writing  that  unless 
she  could  be  at  home  to  receive  him  when  he  came 
down  from  Oxford  he  would  have  to  betake  himself 
to  London,  which  she  thought  would  be  less  healthy 
for  him  than  knocking  over  my  pheasants.” 

It  will  be  perceived  from  this  that  a family  ar- 
rangement which  had  palpable  advantages  to  recom- 


A PROMISE  OF  SUCCESS. 


81 


mend  it  was  not  likely  to  meet  with  parental  oppo- 
sition on  either  side.  It  was  by  this  time  understood 
and  acknowledged  that  Fitzroy  Pennant  would  some 
day  succeed  to  the  Abbotswell  estate — so  much  so 
that  he  was  now  destined  for  the  Guards,  instead 
of,  as  had  at  one  time  been  contemplated,  for  a 
more  lucrative  profession.  His  mother  was  of 
opinion  that  it  would  be  no  bad  thing  if  he  should 
take  a fancy  to  James’s  daughter,  and  thought  that, 
in  any  case,  he  might  as  well  have  a look  at  the  girl. 
Without  being  precisely  eager  for  the  match — for,  if 
it  came  to  that,  Fitz  might  easily  do  better  as  well 
as  worse — she  was  quite  willing  to  encourage  it;  so 
she  proposed  on  this  occasion  to  avail  herself  of  her 
brother-in-law’s  hospitality  for  a somewhat  longer 
period  than  usual. 

She,  too,  after  her  arrival  and  brisk  scrutiny  of 
the  little  person  at  the  head  of  the  dinner  table — 
that  seat  which  she  herself  had,  during  former  visits, 
been  wont  to  occupy  capably  and  capaciously — had 
an  approving  nod  at  James’s  service,  and  indeed  it 
says  something  for  Miss  Cuckoo’s  tact  that  she  con- 
trived to  take  her  proper  place  in  the  household 
without  ruffling  either  of  the  ladies  who  had  hitherto 
been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  her  father’s  guests. 

Moreover,  she  could  ride — that  part  of  her  edu- 
cation not  having  been  neglected  during  her  long 
residence  abroad — and  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant  had  no 
liking  for  girls  who  were  not  horsewomen.  Not,  to 
be  sure,  that  Cuckoo  knew  anything  like  as  much 
about  the  management  of  horses  as  her  own  daugh- 
ters, Gwen  and  Ella,  did;  that  was  not  to  be  ex- 


82 


THE  WIDOWER. 


pected.  Still,  she  had  nerves  and  light  hands  and  a 
fairly  good  seat,  added  to  which  she  was  modestly 
ready  to  profit  by  instruction. 

“ YouTl  do,”  was  the  good  lady’s  emphatic  ver- 
dict after  a run  with  the  hounds,  of  which  she  saw 
a good  deal  more  than  Cuckoo  did.  “ You  have  a 
lot  to  learn  yet;  but  the  girls  will  put  you  up  to 
some  wrinkles,  and  when  Fitz  comes  he  will  very 
soon  get  you  into  shape.” 

Gwen  and  Ella,  robust,  fresh-complexioned  young 
women,  preserved  from  downright  plainness  by  their 
clear  blue  eyes  and  erect  carriage,  gave  comfirma- 
tory  testimony.  Cuckoo  found  them  pleasant  enough 
as  companions,  and  was  amused  by  the  admiring 
devotion  with  which  they  spoke  of  their  brother. 

“ I remember,”  she  remarked,  “ that  when  I was 
a small  girl  and  he  was  a small  boy  I used  to  wor- 
ship him.  In  all  probability  he  has  now  become  a 
patronizing,  self-satisfied  youth  whom  I shan’t  like 
a bit.” 

“ Wait,”  cried  Gwen  and  Ella  in  a breath,  “ until 
you  have  seen  him!  ” 


CHAPER  VII. 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 

Although  Janies  Pennant  had  few  intimate 
friends  (Lady  Wardlaw  declared  that  these  might  he 
counted  upon  one  finger  of  one  hand,  representing 
herself),  he  had  a rather  large  number  of  acquaint- 
ances, whom  he  had  of  late  years  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  entertaining  by  relays  during  the  season, 
which  offered  some  attraction  to  visitors  in  the 
form  of  sport.  They  now  began  to  arrive,  one  after 
the  other,  until  nearly  all  the  spare  bedrooms  in  a 
commodious  house  were  occupied,  and  Cuckoo — duly 
coached  by  her  future  chaperon  as  to  questions  of 
precedence,  and  also  with  regard  to  what  it  be- 
hooved her  to  do,  say,  and  avoid — had  her  work 
cut  out  to  play  the  part  of  hostess,  which  to  her 
father’s  masculine  simplicity  seemed  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  She  did  play  it  with  complete 
success,  and  found  all  these  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
with  a very  few  exceptions,  both  friendly  and  amus- 
ing. As,  however,  they  have  nothing  particular  to 
do  with  the  progress  of  the  present  narrative,  it  is 
needless  to  detain  the  reader  here  with  a list  of  their 
names  or  a description  of  their  persons.  A more 
interesting  figure  was  about  to  step  upon  the  stage 

83 


84 


THE  WIDOWER. 


temporarily  held  by  a well-dressed,  well-mannered 
chorus,  and  of  course  Miss  Pennant  realized  that  a 
certain  degree  of  interest  must,  if  only  from  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  being  her  father's  heir  presumptive, 
attach  to  the  coming  jeune  premier. 

It  was  by  the  above  title  that  she  mentally  quali- 
fied or  stigmatized  him — which  betrayed  a shade  of 
unwarranted  prejudice  on  her  part  against  the  most 
modest  and  unassuming  of  gilded  youths.  Gilded 
Fitzroy  Pennant  unquestionably  was,  though  not 
what  in  these  days  is  accounted  heavily  so.  About  a 
twelvemonth  earlier  he  had  come  into  possession  of 
the  moderate  fortune  left  by  his  father,  Mrs.  Ar- 
thur having  money  of  her  own;  he  would  eventu- 
ally, bar  improbable  accidents,  succeed  to  an  es- 
tate which  was  being  extremely  well  managed  by 
his  uncle;  he  had  now  concluded  his  university 
career,  and  was  upon  the  point  of  joining  that  brig- 
ade of  Guards  the  younger  officers  of  which,  after 
all,  represent  adequately  enough  the  fine  fleur  of  Brit- 
ish juvenility.  When  to  this  it  is  added  that  he  was, 
by  common  consent,  the  handsomest  undergraduate 
at  Christ  Church,  besides  being  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  all-round  athletes  in  England,  no  fair- 
minded  person  will  deny  that  he  had  some  right  to 
give  himself  airs.  Nor  will  he  be  refused  the  credit 
which  was  his  due,  in  that  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  do  anything  of  the  sort. 

He  arrived  one  evening  just  before  the  dinner 
hour — a smiling,  fair-haired  giant,  moving  with  the 
ease  and  grace  of  one  whose  limbs  are  at  all  times 
under  perfect  control — and  the  little  lady  of  the 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


85 


house  who  received  him  was  almost  obliged  to  stand 
on  tiptoe  in  order  to  place  her  slim  fingers  within  his 
big,  outstretched  palm. 

“Dear  me!”  was  her  welcoming  ejaculation, 
“you  have  grown!” 

“ Fve  had  the  time,”  he  answered,  laughing. 
Then,  gazing  down  upon  her.  “ I can’t  return  the 
compliment — if  it  is  a compliment.  But,  of  course,” 
he  added,  after  a moment’s  consideration,  “ one 
wouldn’t  wish  you  to  grow.” 

Whether  that  was  a compliment  or  not  seemed 
to  be  at  least  equally  open  to  doubt,  but  the  young 
man’s  manner  implied  that  it  had  not  been  intended 
to  be  the  reverse. 

“ I suppose,”  Cuckoo  presently  said,  still  survey- 
ing him  critically  with  her  head  a little  on  one  side, 
“ you  don’t  remember  saying  good-bye  to  me,  out  in 
the  garden  there,  ages  and  ages  ago?” 

“ I remember  it  as  distinctly  as  possible,”  he  re- 
plied, and  his  questioner  was  maliciously  delighted 
to  notice  that  he  was  neither  too  old  nor  too  self- 
satisfied  to  colour  becomingly  at  the  recollection. 

“ Oh,  don’t  be  alarmed,”  she  begged;  “ I really 
don’t  meditate  doing  it  again.  I was  only  wondering 
whether  the  you  who  aren’t  at  all  the  you  of  those 
old  days  had  forgotten  the  queer  little  mortal  who 
inhabited  what  was  then  my  skin.  I’ve  got  another 
skin  now,  you  know;  everybody’s  skin,  I believe,  is 
completely  renewed  in  the  course  of  seven  years.” 

“And  is  there  another  mortal  inside  yours?” 
Fitzroy  made  bold  to  inquire. 

“Isn’t  that  obvious?  I meant  it  to  be” 


86 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ Well,”  the  young  man  declared,  “ Fm  bound 
to  say  that  I shouldn't  have  thought  so  if  you  hadn’t 
told  ihe.  You  strike  me  as  being  an  uncommonly 
good  imitation  of  what  you  were — and  Fm  very 
glad  of  it.” 

“ Ah!  well,  I suppose  you  couldn’t  be  expected  to 
discern  the  improvement  at  a glance.  It  will  im- 
press itself  gradually  upon  you  during  dinner,  if 
you  happen  to  overhear  my  conversation  with  the 
venerable  old  creature  who  is  to  take  me  in.  Which 
reminds  me  that  the  dressing  gong  sounded  a quar- 
ter of  an  hour  ago.  We  shall  keep  them  all  waiting 
unless  we  look  sharp.” 

It  was  not  in  Fitzroy’s  power,  when  he  took  his 
place  at  the  long  dinner  table  half  an  hour  later,  to 
catch  what  Cuckoo  was  saying  to  Lord  Eastnor,  the 
ex-Foreign  Minister  of  the  former  Tory  Cabinet,  who 
occupied  the  chair  on  the  left;  as  beseemed  his  hum- 
ble rank,  he  was  seated  too  far  away  from  distin- 
guished guests  for  that.  But  he  noticed  that  she 
was  vivacious,  loquacious,  absolutely  at  her  ease,  and 
that  her  neighbour’s  undivided  attention  was  bestowed 
upon  her.  His  own  neighbour,  a young  lady  who 
was  no  longer  quite  as  young,  nor  perhaps  quite  as 
amiable,  as  she  had  been  prior  to  half  a dozen  Lon- 
don seasons,  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze  and 
remarked: 

“ Oh,  yes;  you  are  quite  right,  your  cousin  is 
extraordinary.  If  she  is  like  this  before  she  is  even 
out,  what  will  she  be  next  year,  or  the  year  after? 
And  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all  about  her 
is  that  nobody  can  help  liking  her.  One  doesn’t,  as 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


87 


a rule,  like  people  who  are  so  awfully  clever,  do  you 
think  so?  ” 

“ I don’t  know.  I always  liked  Cuckoo,  and  she 
was  always  awfully  clever,”  Fitzroy  replied. 

“ Really?  Well,  that  is  quite  as  it  should  be;  for, 
of  course,  you  know  that  she  is  your  manifest  des- 
tiny.” 

The  young  fellow  showed  his  even  white  teeth 
in  a laugh  which  was  entirely  free  from  embarrass- 
ment or  self-consciousness.  “ Because  of  the  prop- 
erty, you  mean?  But  that  sort  of  thing  never  comes 
off,  and  I don’t  believe  Uncle  James  has  any  such 
notion  in  his  head.  I should  think,  too,  that  Cuckoo 
might  consider  herself  entitled  to  look  a little 
higher.” 

On  being  questioned  as  to  whether  it  was  or  was 
not  the  case  that  the  girl  would  have  a lot  of  money, 
and  plied  with  other  interrogations  which  struck  him 
as  savouring  slightly  of  impertinence,  he  answered  a 
little  curtly  that  he  really  knew  nothing  at  all  about 
it,  and  changed  the  subject.  He  was  in  the  happy 
position  of  being  heart-whole;  he  had  hitherto  been 
too  constantly  engaged  upon  the  serious  business  of 
keeping  himself  in  fit  condition  for  athletic  contests 
to  devote  his  few  leisure  hours  to  the  pastime  of 
flirtation,  and,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  his  cousin 
was  not  at  all  likely  to  disturb  the  accustomed  seren- 
ity of  his  sleep  and  digestion.  Still,  the  brief  talk 
that  he  had  had  with  her  before  dinner  had  stirred 
up  in  him  a decided  wish  for  a renewal  of  their  old 
alliance,  and  he  thereupon  said  to  himself  that  he 
did  hope  there  was  not  going  to  be  any  con- 


88 


THE  WIDOWER. 


founded  nonsense  of  the  nature  just  alluded  to.  Be- 
cause, if  there  was,  both  Cuckoo’s  comfort  and  his 
own  would  be  necessarily  and  fatally  compromised. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  perhaps  as  well 
say  a word  or  two  to  his  sisters.  Giving  them  clear- 
ly to  understand  that  he  had  neither  hopes,  expec- 
tations, nor  intentions  would,  he  felt  sure,  be  tanta- 
mount to  rising  there  and  then  and  making  the 
same  announcement  in  a loud  tone  of  voice  for  the 
benefit  of  the  assembled  company. 

There  was,  however,  no  immediate  need  for  sum- 
moning the  garrulous  Gwen  and  Ella  to  his  assist- 
ance. He  satisfied  himself  of  that  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  when  occasion  was  given  him  to  discover 
that  his  accomplished  cousin  asked  for  nothing  bet- 
ter than  the  frank,  unsentimental  intimacy  which  he 
desired.  He  had  the  privilege  of  some  intermittent 
conversation  with  her;  he  joined  others  in  applaud- 
ing the  marvellous  things  that  she  contrived  to  do 
with  the  piano  (although,  like  his  uncle,  he  was  fain 
to  confess  that  he  did  not  know  very  much  about 
music);  finally,  after  the  older  ladies  had  gone  up- 
stairs to  bed,  he  was  able  to  admire  her  still  in  an 
art  about  which  he  did  know  something — the  playing 
of  pool. 

“ This  borders  upon  the  miraculous,”  he  re- 
marked, after  seeing  her  successfully  clear  the  table. 
“ One  was  more  or  less  prepared  for  a female  Rubin- 
stein, but  one  really  didn’t  quite  expect  to  be  potted 
by  a female  Roberts.  May  I venture  to  ask  whether 
there  is  anything  at  all  that  you  can’t  do?” 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  above  question  that 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


89 


amongst  her  capabilities  was  that  of  setting  a diffi- 
dent and  slightly  apprehensive  young  man  complete- 
ly at  his  ease.  But  she  hastened  to  assure  him 
that,  although  she  had  a superficial  acquaintance 
with  many  arts  and  sciences,  she  was  proficient  only 
in  a very  few. 

“ Father  insisted  upon  my  taking  some  lessons  in 
billiards,  just  as  he  insisted  upon  my  being  taught 
to  swim  and  fence  and  box.  He  said  all  that  could 
do  me  no  harm  and  might  do  me  some  good.  But 
I am  as  certain  as  I am  of  my  own  existence  that 
when  you  have  seen  me  on  a horse  you  will  have  to 
turn  your  head  aside  to  conceal  your  emotion.  If 
you  were  what  I should  like  you  to  be,  a species  of 
good-natured  elder  brother,  you  would  offer  me  a 
few  days*  schooling/* 

He  asked  for  nothing  better  (how  clever  it  was 
of  her  to  have  divined  that!  he  thought)  than  to  be 
treated  as  a good-natured  elder  brother,  and  the 
schooling  which  she  requested  was  entirely  at  her 
service.  On  the  following  day,  which  was  a non- 
hunting day,  he  rode  out  with  her  and  told  her  un- 
hesitatingly and  unequivocally  what  her  faults  were. 
She  had  been  badly  taught  in  some  respects,  he  said; 
still,  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  very 
soon  learn  to  ride  to  hounds  almost,  if  not  quite,  as 
well  as  Gwen  and  Ella — no  reason,  except  a shift 
of  the  wind  to  the  northeast,  which  brought  a sharp 
frost  and  enabled  the  shooting  men  to  have  things 
all  their  own  way.  He  himself  was  an  excellent 
shot;  Cuckoo  and  the  other  ladies  in  the  house  paid 
their  due  tribute  of  applause  to  a prowess  of  which 


90 


THE  WIDOWER. 


they  were  admiring  witnesses,  and,  had  he  been  a 
conceited  young  man,  he  might  have  thought,  as 
sundry  wellwishers  of  his  did,  that  his  cousin’s  hand 
was  to  be  obtained  by  him  at  any  moment  for  the 
asking. 

Was  it  in  order  to  correct  any  such  possible  and 
unwarrantable  assumption  on  his  part  that  Cuckoo, 
after  a day  or  two,  begun  to  neglect  him  in  favour 
of  certain  of  her  father’s  guests  who  were  likewise 
young,  marriageable,  eligible,  and  very  well  able  to 
lay  rocketing  pheasants  low?  Such,  at  all  events, 
was  the  line  of  conduct  which  she  was  pleased  to 
take  up,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  much 
like  it.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  address  a few 
words  of  private  and  kindly  admonition  to  her.  It 
was  a pity,  he  said,  to  go  in  for  flirting;  no  man 
who  was  worth  twopence  really  liked  a flirt. 

“ Are  any  of  these  men  worth  twopence?” 
Cuckoo  interrupted  him  by  inquiring.  “ Because,  if 
they  aren’t,  of  course  it  doesn’t  matter;  and  if  they 


“ What  if  they  are?  ” 

“ Well,  then,  I would  hope  they  would  be  neither 
rude  enough  nor  stupid  enough  to  call  me  a flirt  for 
trying  to  amuse  them.  Isn’t  it  my  duty  to  amuse 
them?  ” 

Fitzroy  rather  grudgingly  supposed  that  it  was. 
Only  there  were  various  ways  of  amusing  people;  some 
quite  unobjectionable,  others  which — perhaps  owing 
to  his  personal  rudeness  and  stupidity — he  should 
avoid,  if  he  were  in  her  place. 

“ Such  as,  for  instance?”  she  meekly  asked. 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


91 


Oh,  you  know!  Sitting  in  corners  with  fel- 
lows, and— and  that  sort  of  thing.” 

Cuckoo  nodded  gravely.  “ I see;  many  thanks 
for  warning  me.  If  there  are  any  corners  in  the 
Town  Hall,  where  the  Hunt  Ball  is  to  be  held  on 
Thursday,  I will  make  a point  of  shying  away  from 
them.  It  is  all  the  more  important  that  I should 
behave  nicely  on  that  occasion,  as  Lady  Wardlaw 
doubts  very  much  whether  I ought  to  appear  even 
at  a country  ball  before  having  been  presented.” 

“Are  the  rest  of  us  going  to  appear?” 

“ 1 am  not  sure  about  my  father,  who  will  make 
haste  to  catch  an  excusing  cold  in  the  head,  if  he  pos- 
sibly can.  My  poor  father  foresees  that  he  will  soon 
be  compelled  to  attend  balls  in  London,  and  he 
doesn’t  want  to  be  tormented  before  his  time.” 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  the  drawing-room, 
shortly  after  five  o’clock  tea,  and  Lady  Wardlaw’ 
uho  chanced  to  be  seated  near  the  young  people, 
overheard  the  last  words  spoken  by  one  of  them. 

Your  father,  she  remarked,  “ has  given  me 
carte  blanche  to  represent  him  at  the  London  balls. 
If  he  is  anxious  to  shirk  this  provincial  function, 
most  likely  it  is  because  he  has  heard  that  the  Roch- 
dales  are  staying  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  because 
one  room  won’t  hold  him  and  Lord  Rochdale.”  She 
beckoned  to  her  cousin,  and  when  he  appeared 
asked:  “ Isn’t  it  true  that  you  would  rather  take  to 
your  bed  with  congestion  of  the  lungs  than  meet 
Lord  Rochdale  at  a ball  or  anywhere  else  ? ” 

James  smiled.  “I  don’t  like  the  man,  I con- 
fess,” he  answered;  “ I think  him  both  incompetent 


92 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  dangerous  as  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Colonies, 
and  I have  had  to  say  as  much  publicly.  Still,  I 
dare  say  we  can  meet  in  private  without  flying  at  one 
another's  throats." 

“ I can’t  meet  his  wife  without  flying  at  hers," 
Lady  Wardlaw  candidly  avowed.  “ If  the  woman 
had  any  sort  of  right  to  give  herself  the  insufferable 
airs  that  she  does  one  might  make  shift  to  put  up 
with  her;  but,  considering  that  she  is  an  absolute 
nobody  by  birth,  it  is  rather  more  than  one’s  philoso- 
phy can  endure  to  be  offered  two  fingers  of  her  left 
hand,  and  told  how  sorry  she  is  that  she  can’t  find 
room  for  everybody  at  her  economical  squashes.’’ 

A neighbouring  lady  chimed  in  with  confirma- 
tory remarks,  and  from  the  chorus  of  voices  which 
presently  arose  it  became  evident  that  Lord  and 
Lady  Rochdale  were  not  popular  persons.  They 
were,  it  appeared,  very  “ smart  ’’  and  notoriously 
half  ruined;  they  were  much  given  to  quartering 
themselves  for  indefinite  periods  upon  well-to-do  ac- 
quaintances; their  chief  mission  in  life — so  Cuckoo’s 
sharp  eyes  and  ears,  which  were  ever  open  for  the 
reception  of  fresh  impressions,  gathered — was  to  give 
offence  to  everybody,  including  their  entertainers, 
with  whom  they  were  brought  in  contact,  and  they 
fulfilled  their  mission  by  means  of  an  aggressive  and 
uncalled-for  self-assertion.  She  was  wondering  why 
they  should  think  it  worth  while  to  make  so  many 
enemies  when  she  was  made  aware  that  they  had  at 
least  one  friend  in  the  person  of  Fitzroy,  who  raised 
the  voice  of  mild  expostulation  to  say: 

“ Oh,  come!  they  aren’t  so  bad  as  all  that,  you 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


93 


know.  I rather  like  the  old  woman  myself;  her 
bark  is  a good  deal  worse  than  her  bite.” 

“ Perhaps,”  observed  Lady  Wardlaw,  “ she  hasn’t 
bitten  you  yet,  young  man.  Why  should  she  bite 
young  men  of  moderate  means  and  good  expecta- 
tions— or  bark  at  them  either?  However,  if  you 
would  like  to  find  out  what  she  can  do  in  the  way 
of  snarling,  you  have  only  to  speak  of  her  to  her 
face  as  you  have  just  done  behind  her  back.  I 
doubt  whether  she  will  submit  tamely  to  be  called 
an  old  woman.” 

“ What,”  Cuckoo  afterward  took  occasion  to  in- 
quire of  her  cousin,  “ are  Lady  Kochdale’s  daughters 
like?  ” 

“The  married  ones,  do  you  mean?” 

“ NTo,  the  unmarried  ones.” 

“ Oh,  well,  there’s  only  one  left — Lady  Elizabeth. 
I don’t  know  much  about  her,  but  of  course  she’s 
pretty;  they’re  all  pretty.” 

The  off-hand,  careless  tone  in  which  Fitzroy 
made  this  announcement  was  perhaps  a trifle  over- 
done; at  all  events,  he  might  have  remembered  that 
his  sisters  were  sure  to  betray  the  circumstance  of 
his  being  one  of  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell’s  reputed 
admirers.  But  even  if  they  did,  why  should  he 
mind,  seeing  that  he  was  not  one  of  Cuckoo  Pen- 
nant’s admirers,  and  was  particularly  anxious  that 
no  mistake  should  be  made  upon  that  point.  For 
the  rest,  he  respectfully  admired  more  ladies  than 
one,  and  hoped  to  retain  the  right  of  free  admira- 
tion until  he  should  be  a good  many  years  older. 

What  was  neither  fair  nor  reasonable  of  him  was 


94: 


THE  WIDOWER. 


that  he  should  wish  to  curtail  his  cousin’s  liberty  in 
a similar  direction,  and  it  was  owing  to  the  adop- 
tion of  this  inadmissible  attitude  on  his  part  that 
Cuckoo’s  first  ball  was  made  the  occasion  of  some- 
thing like  a rupture  of  amicable  relations  between 
them. 

Cuckoo  danced  quite  beautifully,  and,  as  a natu- 
ral consequence,  she  had  more  partners,  or  would-be 
partners,  than  there  were  dances  on  the  programme. 
That  was  all  right,  Fitzroy  said,  and  if  somebody 
must  needs  be  thrown  over  no  doubt  it  was  better 
that  a blood  relation  should  be  treated  in  that  way 
than  a mere  acquaintance,  who  might  be  foolish 
enough  to  take  offence.  At  the  same  time,  he  must 
take  the  liberty  of  repeating  what  he  had  said  before, 
that  it  was  rather  a pity  to  start  by  showing  marked 
preferences  and  by  bolting  undisguisedly  from  a man 
who,  after  all,  had  been  allowed  to  write  his  name 
twice  on  your  card.  “ Lots  of  girls  do  it,  of  course, 
only  it  isn’t  generally  considered  very  good  form, 
you  know.” 

Cuckoo’s  answer  was  quite  ready.  “ Consider- 
ing that  here  we  are,  it  is  evident  that  I can’t  have 
bolted  from  you,  with  or  without  disguise.  I may 
have  been  wrong  in  supposing  that  the  last  dance, 
not  this  one,  was  ours;  but,  as  I have  unfortunately 
lost  my  card,  there’s  no  knowing  whether  the  mis- 
take was  yours  or  mine.  If  it  is  a mistake  to  show 
marked  preferences — but  really  I am  not  conscious 
of  having  shown  any — you  are  hardly  the  proper 
person  to  say  so,  after  dancing  four  times  in  succes- 
sion with  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell — who,  by  the  way. 


THE  DEVELOPED  COUSINS. 


95 


is  even  prettier  than  you  led  me  to  expect.  Won’t 
you  go  back  to  her  now  ? She  looks  as  if  she  rather 
wondered  why  you  didn’t.” 

I would  rather  keep  my  engagement  to  you, 
thanks,”  said  Fitzroy. 

' But  I am  engaged  to  somebody  else  for  this 
dance,  you  see,  and  somebody  else  is  showing  signs 
of  impatience.  Never  mind— I forgive  you.” 

She  moved  away  on  the  arm  of  a young  man  who 
had  been  hovering  near  her  during  the  above  collo- 
quy, and  Fitzroy  was  fain  to  act  as  she  had  suggested. 
Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell  was  unquestionably  pretty, 
with  her  round,  babyish  face,  her  china-blue  eyes, 
and  the  artistically  careless  arrangement  of  her  brown 
locks.  Some  people  said  that  she  was  also  very  silly, 
very  affected,  and  very  conceited;  but  the  ill  nature’ 
of  some  people  knows  no  bounds.  Fitzroy  liked 
her  so  much  that  he  was  willing,  for  her  sake,  to 
discover  amiable  qualities  even  in  her  mother  a 
rough-tongued  lady  of  fine  physical  proportions, 
whose  cheeks  were  thickly  powdered  and  whose  wig 
and  eyebrows  would  not  have  deceived  an  infant. 
As  for  Lord  Rochdale,  nobody  in  the  House  of  Lords 
or  the  Colonial  Office  or  anywhere  else  had  ever  cred- 
ited that  pompous,  dull-witted,  obstinate  personage 
with  amiability,  and  the  cold  in  the  head  which  his 
political  opponent  at  Abbotswell  had  fulfilled  proph- 
ecy by  catching  seemed  to  stand  in  need  of  no  ex- 
planation. James  Pennant  was  habitually  courte- 
ous to  political  opponents,  while  Lord  Rochdale 
was  habitually  and  upon  principle  the  reverse. 

That,  however,  did  not  prevent  his  lordship  from 


96 


THE  WIDOWER. 


being  the  father  of  numerous  charming  daughters, 
with  one  of  whom  Fitzroy  spent  the  greater  part  of 
an  evening,  which  was  subsequently  pronounced  by 
the  Abbotswell  party  to  have  been  particularly 
cheery  and  enjoyable.  Driving  homeward  in  the 
omnibus  between  three  and  four  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  was  privileged  to  hear  how  much  Cuckoo, 
for  one,  had  enjoyed  it.  But  her  remarks  were  not 
addressed  to  him,  nor  had  he  anything  to  say  to  her. 
Their  conduct  was  so  exactly  that  of  a pair  of  lovers 
who  have  had  a tiff  that  Lady  Wardlaw,  in  her  dark 
corner,  had  a sleepy  laugh  over  it  all  to  herself. 
Yet  it  was  just  because  they  were  not  lovers  that  they 
were  somewhat  seriously  angry  with  one  another. 
One  of  them  had  been  lectured,  the  other  had  been 
snubbed,  and  each  one  was  aggrievedly  aware  that 
the  sufficient  excuse  of  jealousy  was  wanting.  So 
they  did  not  even  exchange  a civil  good  night  at  the 
end  of  the  long  drive. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


HARRY  CAREW. 

There  was  no  covert  shooting  the  next  day,  none 
of  the  young  men  in  the  house  feeling  in  trim  for 
it;  but  after  luncheon  Fitzroy  and  his  uncle  strode 
out  with  their  guns  to  get  a little  exercise  and  take 
what  chance  might  send  them  in  the  way  of  ground 
game  and  hedgerow  pheasants.  These  two,  who 
had  many  qualities  in  common,  liked  and  understood 
one  another,  so  they  had  a pleasant,  quiet  after- 
noon together,  notwithstanding  the  bitter  northeast 
wind  which  was  not,  perhaps,  quite  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  fqr  a man  with  a cold  in  his  head.  It  ap- 
peared, however,  that  Mr.  Pennant’s  cold  was  not  a 
very  bad  one. 

“ I felt  bound  to  catch  it  by  sitting  for  an  hour 
in  wet  boots  the  other  day,”  he  explained  to  his 
companion;  “but  as  soon  as  it  had  served  its  pur- 
pose I considered  myself  at  liberty  to  employ  reme- 
dies.” 

“ I rather  wish,”  observed  Fitzroy,  after  a pause, 
“that  you  didn’t  hate  them  so  much.” 

There  was  no  need  for  him  to  mention  names, 
and  James  at  once  replied:  “ Oh,  I don’t  hate  them; 
I would  a little  rather  not  meet  them,  that’s  all. 
They  are  bad-mannered  people.” 


97 


98 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ But  not  Lady  Elizabeth,”  pleaded  the  young 
man;  “ I really  don’t  think  anybody  could  call  her 
bad-mannered.  In  fact,  I was  in  hopes  that  perhaps 
she  and  Cuckoo  would  make  friends.” 

James  glanced  quickly  at  the  speaker,  perceiving 
immediately  all  that  that  simple  assertion  might  be 
intended  to  imply.  Of  course  he  would  have  been 
glad  if  kind  Heaven  had  prompted  his  nephew  and 
his  daughter  to  take  a fancy  to  one  another,  and  of 
course  he  was  aware  that  the  possibility  of  their  do- 
ing so  must  have  suggested  itself  to  others  besides 
Jane  Wardlaw.  But  for  no  earthly  consideration 
would  he  have  brought  any  semblance  of  pressure 
to  bear  upon  either  of  the  parties  principally  con- 
cerned. 

“ Cuckoo,”  he  remarked,  “ will  never  be  in  the 
Rochdales’  set;  we  are  neither  rich  enough  nor  fash- 
ionable enough  for  that.  I don’t  doubt,  though, 
that  the  young  lady’s  manners  are  as  charming  as 
her  face.  You  might  make  a worse  choice,  Fitz — if 
that  is  what  you  are  thinking  about.” 

Fitz  hastened  to  protest  that  he  was  not  thinking 
about  anything  of  the  sort,  but  he  did  not  pursue 
the  subject  further.  What  he  really  wanted  to  say 
was  that  he  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  stay  with 
the  Bochdales,  and  that  he  hoped  his  uncle  would 
not  mind  his  leaving  Abbotswell,  on  that  account,  a 
little  earlier  than  had  been  arranged.  The  occasion, 
however,  scarcely  seemed  propitious  for  making  this 
announcement,  and  it  was  to  his  cousin  that  he  im- 
parted the  news  at  a later  hour. 

Cuckoo,  much  to  his  relief,  had  completely  re- 


HARRY  CAREW. 


99 


covered  her  good  humour  when  he  approached  her 
after  dinner.  She  made  no  allusion  to  the  episodes 
of  the  previous  evening,  and  apparently  took  it  for 
granted  that,  if  he  had  been  a little  cross  then  (as 
i he  certainly  had  been),  he  was  so  no  longer. 

“ Oh,  yes,  that  will  be  rather  jolly  for  you,  won’t 
it?”  said  she,  after  he  had,  in  a somewhat  awkward 
and  shame-faced  manner,  avowed  his  contemplated 
desertion.  “ I am  sorry  you  have  to  go  so  soon, 
because  I looked  forward  to  the  end  of  the  frost 
and  a few  more  riding  lessons.  Still,  I dare 
say  I may  be  able  to  lay  my  hand  upon  a substi- 
tute. All  these  men  profess  to  be  competent  instruct- 
ors.” 

“ And  perhaps,”  Fitzroy  ventured  to  suggest, 
“you  would  let  me  come  back  later?” 

“If  we  are  still  here;  but  we  are  to  go  up  to 
London,  I believe,  as  soon  as  Parliament  opens.” 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  at  the  end  of 
which  the  young  man  blurted  out  abruptly.  “ I say, 
Cuckoo,  I’m  afraid  you  thought  I was  impertinent 
last  night.  I didn’t  mean  to  be,  you  know;  but — 
but,  after  all,  you  are  my  cousin,  and — and  it  isn’t 
as  if  you  had  a mother.” 

Cuckoo  laughed  so  heartily  that  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes — and,  of  course,  it  could  only  have  been 
excessive  merriment  that  brought  them  there. 

“ I never  heard  of  anything  more  touching  than 
your  wish  to  be  a mother  to  me!”  she  exclaimed. 
“ After  that,  one  feels  that  such  a word  as  imper- 
tinence would  be  quite  out  of  place.  Not  that  I 
thought  you  impertinent.” 


100 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ I didn’t  mean  to  be,”  the  young  man  repeated. 
“ C’est  compris . And  IT1  do  my  best  to  avoid 
sitting  in  corners  after  your  maternal  eye  has  ceased 
to  keep  watch  over  me.  Can  I say  more?  ” 

If  she  had  said  less  he  might  have  been  better 
pleased — so  difficult  is  it  to  give  satisfaction  to  some 
people!  But  she  was,  at  any  rate,  not  affronted 
with  him  for  having  accepted  the  hospitality  of  her 
father’s  political  enemy,  which,  no  doubt,  showed  a 
certain  magnanimity  on  her  part.  He  went  away 
after  a day  or  two,  and  if  his  departure  was  resented 
by  anybody,  it  was  neither  by  his  mother,  who  was 
fully  alive  to  the  social  advantages  that  were  likely 
to  accrue  to  him  from  an  intimacy  with  the  Roch- 
dales,  nor  by  Lady  Wardlaw,  who  was  convinced  that 
she  could  make  a much  finer  and  less  commonplace 
match  for  Cuckoo  than  that  to  which  the  girl  seemed 
predestined  by  the  circumstance  that  the  Abbot-s- 
well estates  were  entailed. 

Lady  Wardlaw  herself  soon  quitted  the  scene  of 
these  preliminary  operations.  She  was  a popular 
person  who  always  had  innumerable  engagements, 
and  she  had  now  seen  enough — so  she  assured  James 
— to  feel  confident  that  there  would  be  no  sort  of 
difficulty  about  establishing  his  daughter. 

“ I’ll  present  her  at  one  of  the  late  Drawing- 
rooms,” she  said.  “ There  is  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  catching  one’s  death  of  cold  on  the  way  to  the 
early  ones,  and  we  will  take  care  that  she  has  as  much 
mild  Lenten  gaiety  as  is  good  for  her  while  you  are 
busy  fighting  the  Radicals  in  the  House.  Oh,  don’t 
talk  nonsense!  it  stands  to  reason  that  she  must  and 


IIARRY  CAREW. 


101 


will  marry  somebody . Somebody  nice,  of  course;  I 
only  know  nice  people.” 

That  assertion  may  have  been  a trifle  overbold 
(for  what  can  even  the  most  exclusive  lady  know 
about  the  private  characters  of  all  her  acquaint- 
ances?), yet  it  was  perhaps  near  enough  to  the  truth 
for  practical  purposes,  and  James,  when  he  took 
Cuckoo  up  to  the  house  in  Ennismore  Gardens  which 
he  had  hired  for  the  season,  was  disposed  to  rely 
upon  it.  This  move  was  made  in  the  beginning  of 
February,  by  which  time  Fitzroy,  who  had  not  reap- 
peared at  Abbotswell,  had  joined  the  battalion  of 
Guards  to  which  he  had  been  gazetted.  His  cards 
were  discovered  among  many  others  upon  the  hall 
table  shortly  after  the  father  and  daughter  had  en- 
tered upon  possession  of  their  temporary  residence; 
but  when  James  suggested  that  he  had  better  be 
asked  to  dinner.  Cuckoo  demurred. 

“ I have  found  out,”  said  she,  “ that  it  bores  you 
to  have  people  to  dinner,  and  as  I am  still  supposed 
to  be  in  the  chrysalis  stage,  why  should  either  of  us  be 
bored?  We  can  do  all  that  is  due  from  us  in  the 
entertaining  way  when  we  have  been  duly  enter- 
tained. For  the  present,  let  us  be  domestically 
happy.” 

It  may  be  that  domestic  felicity  is  not  very  easily 
attainable  by  a man  immersed  in  public  affairs;  it 
may  also  be  that  James  Pennant’s  ideas  of  what 
constitutes  domestic  felicity  differed  radically  from 
his  daughters.  The  latter,  anyhow,  was  forced  ere 
long  to  the  conclusion  that  she  counted  for  remark- 
ably little  in  her  father’s  scheme  of  existence.  Either 


102 


THE  WIDOWER. 


in  consequence  of  that  or  of  some  other  unacknowl- 
edged reason  that  she  may  have  had  for  feeling  rest- 
less and  ill  at  ease,  the  solitude  of  London — which 
is  such  a very  different  thing  from  the  solitude  of  the 
country — oppressed  her,  and  she  developed  a longing 
for  amusement  of  some  kind,  or  any  kind,  which 
good-natured  Lady  Wardlaw,  on  her  arrival  at  Berke- 
ley Square,  found  quite  natural  and  did  her  best  to 
satisfy. 

This,  as  beseemed  the  season  of  the  year  and  the 
tastes  of  the  persons  concerned,  took  for  the  most 
part  the  form  of  concerts,  public  and  private.  Sir 
William  wTas  enchanted  by  the  appreciative  comments 
of  his  young  relative  on  such  occasions,  as  well  as  by 
the  genuine  successes  which  she  herself  more  than 
once  achieved.  He  declared  that  she  had  the  soul 
of  an  artist  and  the  imagination  of  a creative  genius. 
Lady  Wardlaw’s  criticism  showed  more  discrimi- 
nation. 

“ I don’t  know  so  much  about  creating,  but  I ob- 
serve that  she  is  extraordinarily  clever  at  imitating. 
One  will  have  to  be  a little  careful  about  the  mod- 
els that  one  sets  before  her,  I suspect.” 

For  the  rest,  this  childless  couple  soon  became 
warmly  attached  to  the  girl,  whose  affectionate  nature 
responded  the  more  readily  because  it  had  so  little 
scope  for  expansion  at  home.  She  lived  rather  in 
Berkeley  Square  than  in  Ennismore  Gardens,  where, 
indeed,  James  was  never  to  be  seen  between  the 
hours  of  breakfast  and  dinner,  nor  always  at  the  lat- 
ter. A vigilant  Opposition  had  its  hands  very  full 
just  then;  prominent  politicians  were  apt  to  be  de- 


HARRY  CAREW. 


103 


tained  at  Westminster  half  the  night  through,  and 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  prominent  politicians 
had  perforce  to  dispense  with  their  company. 

“ But  all  that  is  quite  as  it  should  be,”  Lady 
Wardlaw  told  one  of  these,  whose  occasionally  wistful 
expression  of  countenance  she  was  clever  enough  to 
trace  to  its  cause;  “ some  men  have  no  faculty  for 
graceful  idleness.  Without  that  thrice-blessed 
House  of  Commons  your  father  wouldn’t  know  what 
to  do  with  himself — and  he  wouldn’t  know  what  to 
do  with  you  either.  So  it  is  just  as  well  that  Wil- 
liam and  I,  who  do  know,  should  be  upon  the 
spot.” 

Cuckoo  gratefully  acknowledged  that  it  was.  The 
thing  to  be  done  with  her  at  that  particular  juncture 
was  doubtless  to  amuse  her,  and  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  this  end  her  good  friends  in  Berkeley  Square 
were  far  better  equipped  than  her  father  could  pre- 
tend to  be.  Their  spacious  house  was  never  empty; 
the  guests,  young  and  old,  to  whom  she  was  intro- 
duced by  them  found  her  charming — as  indeed  they 
well  might — and  her  powers  of  quick  observation 
enabled  her  to  derive  a good  deal  of  entertainment 
from  the  study  of  their  several  peculiarities.  She 
was,  as  has  been  mentioned  before,  an  excellent 
mimic;  Sir  William  delighted  in  getting  her  to  re- 
produce the  accent  and  gait  of  certain  among  his 
wife’s  intimates,  which  she  did  with  marvellous  ex- 
actitude. Lady  Wardlaw  laughed,  but  disapproved. 

“ You  will  get  yourself  into  trouble  some  day 
with  this  talent  of  yours,  my  dear  girl,”  she  pre- 
dicted. “ Did  you  never  hear  of  the  monkey  who. 


104 


THE  WIDOWER. 


aped  his  master’s  shaving  operations  so  successfully 
that  he  cut  his  own  throat?” 

The  allegorical  parallel  was  not,  perhaps,  very 
likely  to  be  borne  out  in  the  sense  contemplated  by 
Lady  Wardlaw;  for  Cuckoo  was  too  essentially  sym- 
pathetic to  be  spiteful.  Yet  she  was  then,  as  she 
always  has  been  and  always  will  be,  in  some  danger 
of  being  led  astray  by  that  same  fatal  quality  of  sym- 
pathy, which  prompted  her  instantly  to  detect  and 
make  the  most  liberal  allowances  for  everybody’s 
point  of  view.  Tout  comprendre , says  the  proverb, 
c’est  tout  pardonner , and  it  must  be  admitted  that 
there  are  conditions  of  human  sentiment  and  conduct 
which,  in  the  interest  of  public  morality,  are  best 
not  pardoned  too  readily.  Harry  Carew,  for  in- 
stance, as  all  the  world  knew,  deserved  neither  par- 
don nor  sympathy,  though  he  was  fond  of  claiming 
the  later,  and  it  was  rather  a pity  that  he  should  have 
conceived  the  liking  and  admiration  for  Miss  Pen- 
nant which  he  avowed,  with  his  customary  candour, 
on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting. 

“ Oh,  he  is  a deplorable  miscreant,”  Lady  Ward- 
law  said,  in  answer  to  some  questions  that  Cuckoo 
put  respecting  a man  toward  whom  she  had  felt 
somewhat  powerfully  attracted.  “ In  fact,  if  it  were 
not  that  I have  known  him  from  his  childhood,  and 
that  one  doesn’t  wish  to  show  the  cold  shoulder  to  his 
* poor  little  wife,  I should  have  given  up  asking  him 
to  the  house  long  ago.” 

“But  wdiat  has  he  done?”  Cuckoo  inquired. 

“ I couldn’t  possibly  tell  you  in  language  fit  for 
your  ears.  Everything  in  the  world  that  a de- 


HARRY  CAREW. 


105 


cent  husband — or  even  an  ordinarily  indecent  one — 
couldn’t  have  done!  And  the  money  is  all  hers, 
too,  which  makes  it  worse.  If  she  were  to  divorce 
him  to-morrow,  as  she  would  be  amply  justified  in 
, doing,  he  would  be  a beggar,  or  something  very 
like  it.” 

“ It  is  principally  because  she  is  so  religious  that 
he  can’t  manage  to  hit  it  off  with  her,”  Cuckoo  re- 
marked. “ He  has  no  religion  himself,  and  he  is 
very  sorry  for  it;  he  wishes  he  had.  But  of  course 
it  doesn’t  encourage  him  much  to  be  shown  every 
day  how  bitter  and  unforgiving  some  religious  people 
can  be.” 

“ So  he  has  told  you  already  that  he  can’t  hit 
it  off  with  his  wife,  and  that  he  has  no  religion, 
and  that  he  wishes  he  had!  I never  knew  Harry 
fail  to  open  an  acquaintance  in  that  way — after  pre- 
liminary compliments.  He  praised  your  playing,  no 
doubt,  and  mentioned  that  it  had  affected  him  as 
nobody  else’s  playing  had  done  in  his  recollection. 
Well,  it  is  fortunate  that  he  is  old  enough  to  be  your 
father.” 

“ Thirty-five,”  said  Cuckoo. 

“ Forty-three,  if  he  is  a day;  I know  his  age  as 
well  as  I do  my  own.  It  is  because  he  has  no  heart 
and  no  conscience  that  he  looks  ten  years  younger 
than  he  really  is.  People  of  that  sort  never  earn  any 
honourable  scars.  You  must  have  made  rapid  strides 
in  the  direction  of  familiarity  with  him  to  have 
reached  the  point  of  inquiring  how  many  seasons  he 
had  weathered.” 

Cuckoo’s  strides  in  the  direction  of  familiarity 


10G 


THE  WIDOWER. 


with  anybody  and  everybody  were  always  apt  to  be 
rapid,  and  this  handsome,  easy-mannered  gentleman, 
whom  she  met  at  dinner  in  Berkeley  Square  one 
evening,  and  who  gave  her  the  impression  of  being 
very  much  like  an  overgrown  school  boy,  had  shown 
every  disposition  to  be  familiarly  treated.  Bearing 
the  worst  of  reputations,  he  nevertheless  retained 
many  friends  of  the  highest  respectability — friends 
who,  like  Lady  Wardlaw,  generally  excused  them- 
selves upon  the  plea  of  their  reluctance  to  make  his 
ill-used  wife  suffer  for  his  misdeeds,  but  who  in 
truth  probably  kept  a warm  corner  in  their  hearts 
for  so  amiable  a rascal. 

“Anyhow,”’  said  Lady  Wardlaw,  when  James 
subsequently  requested  information  about  “ some 
people  called  Carew,  with  whom  Cuckoo  appears  to 
have  struck  up  a sudden  intimacy”  and  who  had 
twice  invited  her  to  accompany  her  to  the  theatre, 
“ it  isn’t,  to  do  him  justice,  his  habit  to  lay  siege  to 
the  affections  of  ingenues , so  I don’t  think  there  is 
any  need  for  alarm.  After  a fashion,  he  will  make 
love  to  her,  no  doubt — he  would  make  love,  after  a 
fashion,  to  his  grandmother  or  to  an  infant  in  arms 
— but  his  wife  (who  is  a monster  of  jealousy,  poor 
little  wretch)  may  be  trusted  to  keep  him  within  the 
limits  of  strict  propriety  under  his  own  roof.  Added 
to  which,  Cuckoo  is  quite  clever  enough  to  see  the 
joke  of  him.” 

Whether  Mrs.  Carew  and  Cuckoo  deserved  or  not 
the  confidence  thus  reposed  in  them,  the  former  made 
frequent  friendly  overtures  to  which  the  latter  will- 
ingly responded.  Mrs.  Carew  was  a faded,  anxious- 


HARRY  CAREW. 


107 


looking  woman,  who  had  many  grievances  and  liked 
to  talk  about  them.  In  Cuckoo  she  found — as  did  also 
her  husband — a patient  and  interested  listener.  If 
both  parties  to  an  unending  matrimonial  quarrel 
lacked  reticence  and  dignity,  both  were  refreshingly 
comprehensible,  as  well  as  entitled,  apparently,  to 
compassion.  Moreover,  Cuckoo  was  young  enough 
to  feel  flattered  at  being  let  into  the  domestic  se- 
crets of  her  neighbours.  Within  a very  short  space 
of  time,  therefore,  she  became  Vamie  de  la  maison 
in  Chesham  Place,  where  the  Carews  dwelt,  and  if 
of  the  two  she  preferred  the  sinner  to  the  saint,  she 
did  not  differ  in  that  respect  from  others  who  were 
perhaps  better  able  to  judge  of  their  respective  vir- 
tues and  vices. 

“ One  can’t  be  thankful  enough  that  J ulia  has 
taken  such  a fancy  to  you,”  Harry  Carew  remarked. 
“ As  a rule,  she  honours  everybody  whom  I like  with 
so  intense  a hatred  that,  for  the  sake  of  peace  and 
quietness,  I have  to  try  not  to  like  a soul  whom  she 
knows.” 

“ By  all  accounts  you  like  a good  many  people 
whom  she  can’t  know,”  observed  Cuckoo  dryly. 

“ Oh,  yes,  I fully  admit  it;  I admit  everything 
that  can  be  urged  against  my  character — which  is 
too  poor  a thing  to  be  worth  defending  at  this  time 
of  day.  All  the  same,  neither  I nor  the  people  about 
whom  you  seem  to  have  been  told  are  quite  as  black 
as  we’re  painted.” 

“You  would  have  to  be  black  indeed  to  be  as 
black  as  that!  ” 

“ I suppose  so.  May  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
8 


108 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Julia  make  some  amends!  I often  wonder,”  con- 
tinued Mr.  Carew  in  pensive  accents,  “ what  on  earth 
made  me  marry  Julia.” 

“Hush!”  whispered  Cuckoo  apprehensively; 
“ sheTl  hear  you.” 

For  this  dialogue  took  place  in  the  stalls  of  a 
theatre,  whither  Miss  Pennant  had  been  conducted 
by  her  friends,  and  it  did  not  seem  certain  that  the 
fourth  member  of  the  small  party,  a young  man 
who  was  seated  beyond  Mrs.  Carew,  was  exerting 
himself  as  much  as  he  ought  to  have  been  to  en- 
gross her  attention.  She  did  not,  however,  appear 
to  have  caught  a remark  to  which  the  answer  was 
easy  and  obvious.  Everybody,  including  poor  Julia, 
knew  perfectly  well  that  her  scapegrace  of  a hus- 
band had  married  her  because  she  was  possessed  of 
an  independent  fortune.  Even  Cuckoo,  prejudiced 
though  she  was  in  favour  of  the  said  scapegrace,  was 
aware  of  that  discreditable  fact,  and  to  avoid  the 
necessity  of  alluding  to  it  she  turned  her  back  upon 
her  neighbour,  scanning  the  boxes  through  her  opera 
glasses. 

From  one  of  these  a signal  of  recognition  pres- 
ently reached  her.  It  was  Fitzroy,  towering  mag- 
nificently behind  two  ladies,  who  bowed,  smiled, 
waved  his  hand,  and  then  proceeded  to  raise  his  eye- 
brows after  a fashion  which  was  probably  meant  to 
be  significant.  What  the  precise  signification  of  that 
grimace  might  be  Cuckoo  did  not  feel  bound  to  un- 
derstand— although,  as  a matter  of  fact,  she  could 
guess. 

“Who  is  your  friend?” 


Harry  Carew  inquired. 


HARRY  CAREW. 


109 


“ Oh,  your  young  cousin,  isn't  it?  Happy  young 
cousin!  what  wouldn't  I give  to  be  in  his  shoes! 
A good-looking  guardsman,  with  as  much  money  as 
he  wants  and  more  to  follow,  not  to  mention  his  be- 
ing a first-rate  all-round  sportsman  and  the  best  long- 
distance runner  of  his  year — one  can't  very  well 
beat  that,  you  know.  Ah,  Miss  Cuckoo,  why  don't 
you  marry  the  poor  boy,  and  rescue  him  from  the 
clutches  of  old  Lady  Rochdale,  whom  he  won't  find 
a pleasant  mother-in-law,  though  she  is  smiling  so 
sweetly  at  him  just  now." 

“ I am  afraid,"  answered  Cuckoo  composedly, 
“ that  he  doesn't  mean  to  give  me  the  chance." 

“ You  make  me  wish  more  than  ever  that  I stood 
in  the  shoes  which  he  isn't  worthy  to  wear! " 

Cuckoo  made  no  rejoinder.  The  curtain  had 
risen,  and  possibly  what  was  taking  place  upon  the 
stage  interested  her  more  than  Harry  Carew  or  Fitz- 
roy  Pennant  had  it  in  their  power  to  do.  The  latter, 
however,  contrived  to  say  something  rather  interest- 
ing when  the  performance  had  come  to  an  end  and 
when  he  forced  his  way  through  the  retreating 
throng  on  the  staircase  to  shake  hands  with  his 
cousin. 

“What  are  you  doing  with  that  fellow?"  he 
asked,  in  a voice  of  unconcealed  displeasure. 
“ Does  Uncle  James  really  think  that  the  Carews  are 
the  right  sort  of  people  to  take  you  about?" 

“ It  seems  so,"  replied  Cuckoo.  “ What  is  the 
matter  with  them,  please?" 

“ There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  her  that  I 
know  of;  but  Carew! — well,  all  I can  say  is  that 


110 


THE  WIDOWER. 


I should  be  very  sorry  to  see  him  whispering  into 
the  ear  of  one  of  my  sisters  at  a theatre.” 

Cuckoo  laughed.  The  pictured  peril  to  the 
homely  Gwen  and  Ella  did  not  strike  her  as  particu- 
larly alarming.  “ I might  as  well  say,”  she  returned, 
“ that  I should  be  sorry  to  see  my  brother,  if  I had 
one,  whispering  into  the  ear  of  Lady  Eochdale — 
who,  par  parenthese , is  beckoning  frantically  to  you 
at  this  moment.  Yqu  will  have  to  tell  me  some 
other  time  why  you  object  so  strongly  to  poor  Mr. 
Carew.  He  doesn’t  object  at  all  to  you;  he  has 
been  paying  you  some  very  pretty  compliments.” 

“ I don’t  want  his  compliments,”  Fitzroy  was 
rude  enough  to  reply,  “ and  I can  tell  you  now  in 
half  a dozen  words  why  I object  to  him.  He  is  a 
thorough-paced  blackguard.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 

To  call  a man  a thorough-paced  blackguard  is, 
no  doubt,  to  employ  very  strong  language;  but  the 
unfortunate  fact  is  that  Harry  Carew’s  apologists,  if 
he  had  had  any,  must  needs  have  admitted  that  they 
were  in  no  position  to  resent  such  descriptions  of  him 
as  might  be  given  by  the  virtuously  indignant.  All 
that  could  be  said  for  him,  and  all  that  ever  was  said 
for  him,  was  that  it  was  impossible  to  help  liking  the 
man;  nobody  had  the  temerity  to  assert  that  he  de- 
served to  be  liked — nobody,  that  is,  except  Cuckoo, 
who  was  but  vaguely  acquainted  with  the  episodes 
of  his  past  career,  and  who,  when  her  cousin  found 
her  at  home  on  the  ensuing  afternoon,  was  quite  in 
the  mood  to  stand  up  as  devil’s  advocate  against  a 
young  man  so  self-confident  and  so  uncharitable 
toward  others. 

“ Oh,  of  course,  if  Uncle  James  doesn’t  object, 
and  if  Lady  Wardlaw  doesn’t  object,  that’s  final,” 
Fitzroy  somewhat  ungraciously  owned.  “I  must 
say  I should  have  thought  that  a fellow  with  a his- 
tory like  Carew’s — a fellow  who  has  actually  had  to 
take  his  name  off  the  books  at  his  club  in  order  to 
avoid  a threatened  inquiry  into  certain  turf  scandals, 

111 


112 


THE  WIDOWER, 


not  to  mention  Heaven  knows  how  many  scandals  of 
another  kind  in  which  he  has  been  mixed  up — I 
must  say  I should  have  thought  that  he  would  he 
upon  their  black  list.  But  one  lives  and  learns!” 

“ I sincerely  hope  that  when  you  have  lived  a 
little  longer,  Fitz,”  returned  Cuckoo,  “you  will  have 
learnt  to  be  a little  less  unjust  and  ungenerous.” 

She  proceeded  to  give  him  some  of  the  reasons — 
they  were  not,  to  be  sure,  very  convincing  reasons — 
that  she  had  for  doubting  whether  he  in  the  least 
understood  the  man  whom  he  was  pleased  to  de- 
nounce, and  ended  by  asking  him  whether  he  really 
thought  that  association  with  Mr.  Carew  was  likely 
to  result  in  her  being  warned  off  Newmarket  heath. 

He  really  thought  that  it  might  have  other  re- 
sults almost  as  discreditable;  but  these  were  rather 
difficult  to  paticularize,  and  he  was  fain  to  repeat 
that  if  his  uncle  saw  no  objection  to  so  undesirable 
an  intimacy,  it  was  not  for  him  to  lift  up  his  voice 
in  opposition  to  it. 

“ Only,”  he  remarked,  “ you  may  as  well  be  pre- 
pared for  what  is  quite  certain,  that  people  will 
notice  it  and  say  disagreeable  things  about  it.  Lady 
Rochdale ” 

“ Lady  Rochdale,”  interrupted  Cuckoo,  “ is,  of 
course,  universally  beloved  and  admired,  and  I don’t 
wonder  at  your  attaching  great  importance  to  her 
opinion.  But,  personally,  I happen  to  regard  her  as 
a malevolent,  painted  old  hag — which  accounts  for 
my  not  caring  a pin  what  she  says  or  thinks.  Her 
daughter,  I suppose,  disapproves  of  me  as  much  as 
she  does?  ” 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


113 


Fitzroy  shook  his  head.  “ Lady  Elizabeth,”  he 
stoutly  declared,  “ is  as  good  and  kind  a girl  as  there 
is;  she  told  me  she  would  like  to  know  you,  and  she 
has  heard  a lot  about  your  playing  and — and  all 
that.  Besides,  Lady  Rochdale  never  said  she  dis- 
approved of  you  .”  He  added,  after  a momentary 
pause,  “ I shouldn’t  have  allowed  her  to  say  such  a 
thing.” 

Cuckoo  was  at  once  mollified.  “ Wouldn’t  you?  ” 
she  asked.  “ Well,  then,  we  won’t  quarrel  over  it, 
Fitz.  I haven’t  such  a superfluity  of  friends  that 
I can  afford  to  lose  either  you  or  the  Carews,  and — 
after  all,  why  should  one  wish  one’s  friends  to  be 
absolutely  immaculate?  Suppose  we  talk  about 
something  else?  About  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell,  for 
instance,  who,  I am  sure,  looks  immaculate  enough 
for  anything.” 

Perhaps  Fitzroy  was  not  very  eager  to  talk  about 
that  young  lady;  still,  on  being  pressed,  he  felt  in 
honour  bound  to  give  her  unstinted  praise.  She  was 
as  amiable  as  she  was  pretty,  she  had  many  accom- 
plishments— such  as  painting  in  water  colours  and 
playing  the  banjo  with  remarkable  skill — she  had  no 
"side”  (“Oft/”  Cuckoo  could  not  refrain  from  in- 
terjecting), and  in  short,  it  was  only  necessary  to 
know  Tier  in  order  to  appreciate  her.  So  he  was 
dismissed  finally  with  the  assurance  that  it  would 
give  his  cousin  much  pleasure  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  this  paragon. 

That  several  subsequent  encounters  and  brief  ex- 
change of  civilities  with  the  paragon  led  Cuckoo  to 
conclude  that  Lady  Elizabeth  was  silly,  insipid,  and 


114 


THE  WIDOWER. 


airified  was  scarcely  wonderful;  for  in  truth,  her 
judgment  was  not  greatly  in  fault  in  the  matter,  and 
women  seldom  see  one  another  as  men  see  them. 
Moreover,  the  Eochdales  moved  in  such  very  exalted 
circles  that  a friendship  between  their  daughter  and 
Miss  Pennant  could  only  be  the  result  of  a species 
of  condescension,  to  which  the  latter  had  no  notion 
of  submitting.  The  Carews  suited  her  a great  deal 
better,  and  with  the  Carews  she  became,  accordingly, 
more  and  more  closely  allied. 

She  was  taken  by  them  to  various  suburban  race 
meetings — which  Mrs.  Carew  attended,  not  because 
racing  had  the  faintest  interest  for  her,  but  because 
she  deemed  it  her  duty  to  keep  an  eye,  so  far  as 
might  be  possible,  upon  her  volatile  husband — and 
thus  she  acquired  knowledge  of  the  kind  which  may 
or  may  not  be  inherently  worth  possessing,  but  which 
is  invariably  deprecated  by  those  who  are  without  it. 
To  Cuckoo  it  was  so  impossible  to  like  people  without 
also  liking  the  things  which  they  liked  that  she  soon 
assimilated  something  of  Harry  Carew’s  passionate 
excitement  over  the  result  of  a handicap.  This,  of 
course,  was  not  diminished  by  the  circumstance  that 
Harry  was  obliging  enough  to  back  his  fancy  for  a 
trifle  on  her  behalf,  but  upon  the  subject  of  such 
transactions  nothing  was  said  to  his  Avife,  who  held 
that  all  betting  was  essentially  immoral. 

“If  you  only  knew  what  it  has  cost  us!”  the 
poor  woman  sighed,  when  she  was  standing,  one 
afternoon,  in  the  paddock  at  Sandown  with  the  girl 
with  whom  she  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  confiding 
some  of  her  woes.  “ The  flat  racing  season  is  not 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


115 


quite  so  bad,  because  then,  I believe,  Harry  does 
sometimes  win  a little;  but  these  wretched  steeple- 
chases and  hurdle  races  always  seem  to  go  the  wrong 
way,  owing,  as  he  says,  to  some  accident  which  no- 
body could  have  foreseen.  As  if  anybody  could  ever 
foresee  an  accident!  The  whole  thing  ought  to  be 
forbidden.  If  lotteries  are  illegal,  why  shouldn’t 
betting  be?  ” 

Cuckoo  could  not  say;  but  she  sagely  remarked 
that  some  men,  if  not  all  men,  required  amusement 
and  would  insist  upon  having  it,  in  one  form  or 
another. 

“ Oh,  if  you  mean  that  racing  helps  to  keep 
Harry  out  of  even  worse  mischief,  perhaps  you  are 
right.  But  it  is  a terribly  expensive  remedy,  and — 
after  all,  one  never  knows!  It  doesn’t  keep  him 
out  of  bad  company,  I’m  afraid.” 

She  glanced  obliquely  at  her  husband,  who  was 
to  be  seen  at  that  moment  strolling  across  the  grass 
beside  an  overdressed  lady,  unknown  to  Cuckoo. 
“ Don’t  you  think,”  she  asked  piteously,  “that  he 
might  at  least  spare  me  these  public  exhibitions?  I 
wish  you  would  say  something  to  him  about  it;  you 
have  much  more  influence  over  him  than  I have.” 

The  compliment  was  not  a particularly  high  one, 
for  there  were  probably  very  few  women  who  could 
not  boast  of  more  influence  over  Harry  Carew  than 
fell  to  his  wife’s  share.  Still,  such  as  it  was,  it 
touched  Cuckoo  in  her  most  vulnerable  spot.  She 
loved  to  count  for  something  in  the  opinions  and 
conduct  of  her  neighbours;  it  flattered  her  to  be  ap- 
pealed to — as  she  frequently  was — for  help  by  one 


116 


THE  WIDOWER. 


or  the  other  of  these  ill-matched  persons,  and  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  Harry  came  to  condole  with  her 
Upon  the  loss  of  the  two  five-pound  notes  with  which 
she  had  intrusted  him,  she  duly  made  the  requested 
remonstrance. 

“ Why  do  you  do  that  sort  of  thing?  ” she  was 
now  sufficiently  intimate  with  him  to  ask.  “ You 
know  it  never  fails  to  enrage  her.” 

Harry,  with  a gesture  which  was  habitual  to  him, 
pushed  his  hat  on  to  the  back  of  his  head,  stuck  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  made  a rueful  grimace. 
“ If  you  will  tell  me,”  he  answered,  “ what  I can 
possibly  do,  short  of  distributing  tracts  by  the  way- 
side  or  accepting  a commission  in  the  Salvation 
Army,  which  isn’t  pretty  certain  to  enrage  Julia,  I 
shall  feel  deeply  indebted  to  you.  Surely  it  is  per- 
mitted to  talk  for  five  minutes  in  the  broad  light  of 
day  to  a woman  with  whom  I have  been  acquainted 
almost  all  my  life!  ” 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ That  depends!  Any- 
how, you  might  refuse  yourself  the  privilege,  rather 
than  give  offence.” 

“ My  dear  Miss  Pennant,  why  don’t  you  advise 
me  to  abolish  myself  at  once?  I’m  one  great  big 
offence  from  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the  sole  of 
my  foot,  and  I shall  never  be  anything  else.  I 
assure  you  it  wouldn’t  be  the  slightest  use  to  try.” 

He  was  given  to  speaking  of  himself  in  that 
way,  and  the  air  of  blithe  irresponsibility  with 
which  he  did  so  was  apt  to  produce  the  effect  upon 
his  hearer  which  it  was  doubtless  intended  to  pro- 
duce. 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


117 


Cuckoo  laughed  a little  and  said:  “ I suppose 
you  are  incorrigible.” 

“ Absolutely,  I'm  afraid,”  he  replied,  with  undi- 
minished cheerfulness. 

But  when  he  was  begged,  as  a personal  favour 
to  Miss  Pennant,  to  go  and  sit  beside  Julia  just  for 
five  minutes,  he  at  once  complied. 

“ If  you  put  it  like  that,  I'll  do  my  best  to  stand 
on  my  head  for  five  minutes,”  he  declared. 

In  affirming,  as  she  had  done,  that  Harry  Carew 
would  make  love,  after  a fashion,  to  his  grandmother 
or  to  an  infant  in  arms  Lady  Wardlaw  had  been 
guilty  of  no  great  exaggeration.  It  came  so  natu- 
rally to  him,  in  his  relations  with  the  opposite  sex, 
to  talk  to  the  one  who  chanced  to  be  nearest  at  hand 
as  though  she,  and  she  alone,  might  command  him 
anything  that  he  could  scarcely  be  held  answerable 
for  the  misconceptions  which  sometimes  arose  from 
that  habit  of  his.  But  if  Cuckoo  did  not  under- 
stand his  little  ways,  it  was  not  for  want  of  hav- 
ing been  warned  what  they  were,  nor  is  there  any 
reason  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  assurances  which 
she  had  by  this  time  more  than  once  received  from 
him  that  he  regarded  her  with  an  affection  half 
paternal,  half  fraternal  in  its  essence.  Therefore 
she  smiled  and  nodded,  saying  “ Be  off,  then!  ” — 
and  it  may  be  that  the  promptitude  with  which  her 
orders  were  obeyed  caused  her  to  plume  herself  rather 
more  than  she  was  justified  in  doing  upon  her  diplo- 
matic skill. 

Those  who  have  had  occasion  to  study  the  spe- 
cies of  diplomacy  wherein  women  strive  to  excel. 


118 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  generally  do  excel,  must  have  been  struck  by 
the  unvarying  simplicity  of  its  methods.  Year  after 
year  and  generation  after  generation  the  same  old 
story  is  repeated  over  and  over  again.  In  politics, 
as  upon  the  domestic  hearth,  feminine  will  or  caprice 
— given  certain  conditions — triumphs  gaily  over  such 
trifling  obstacles  as  argument,  reason,  and  common 
sense;  in  the  absence  of  those  conditions  man  re- 
mains invincible  and  the  lady  powerless.  It  was  be- 
cause her  fathers  character  had  no  soft  side — or,  at 
all  events,  because  she  thought  it  had  none — that 
Cuckoo  was  forced  to  acknowledge  him  her  master; 
and  this  saddened  her,  not  so  much  on  account  of 
her  objection  in  the  abstract  to  own  a master  as  by 
reason  of  her  very  natural  desire  to  feel  that  she 
could  occasionally  coax  or  wheedle  a concession  out 
of  him.  The  late  Mrs.  Pennant,  had  she  lived  long 
enough  to  admonish  a younger  generation,  could 
have  told  her  what  a hopeless  ambition  that  was. 
James,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  was  just  to  everybody 
and  substantially  indulgent  to  those  whom  he  loved; 
he  had  strong  convictions  respecting  the  measures 
of  liberty  to  which  every  human  creature  is  entitled 
— conditions  to  which  he  had  given  effect  in 
Cuckoo’s  case  by  allowing  her  to  go  very  much  her 
own  way  while  he  went  his,  and  asking  for  no  con- 
fidences, save  such  as  she  might  see  fit  to  repose  in 
him.  But  the  moment  that  you  found  yourself  in 
opposition  to  his  ideas  of  what  was  right  and  fitting 
you  might  as  well  attempt  to  brush  aside  a brick 
wall  with  a walking  stick  as  essay  cajolery  with 
him.  Once  or  twice  Cuckoo  had  been  signally 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


119 


worsted  in  such  trials  of  respective  strength.  No 
hard  words  had  been  spoken  on  these  occasions,  nor 
had  the  surrender  of  her  wishes  been  in  itself  a mat- 
ter of  great  importance  to  her;  yet  she  had  been 
made  to  feel  that  she  was  a mere  cipher,  that  she 
counted  for  just  as  much  or  as  little  as  a more  pow- 
erful personality  was  pleased  to  permit,  and  that  is 
what  no  daughter  of  Eve  has  ever  liked  to  feel  since 
the  world  began. 

Consequently,  it  was  not  without  forebodings  of 
probable  failure  that  she  made,  after  dinner  one 
evening,  a request  which  certainly  sounded,  upon  the 
face  of  it,  a trifle  audacious. 

“ Father,  would  you  mind  my  going  to  the  Grand 
National  with  Mr.  Carew?  I want  awfully  to  see 
the  race!  ” 

“ You  mean,  of  course,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ca- 
rew?” said  James  interrogatively. 

But  that,  it  appeared,  was  just  what  Cuckoo  did 
not  mean.  To  travel  all  the  way  to  Liverpool  and 
back  in  one  d^y  was  more  than  Mrs.  Carew’s  strength 
could  be  expected  to  stand;  but  she  was  willing,  not 
to  say  anxious,  that  her  younger  and  more  robust 
friend  should  undertake  this  fatiguing  expedition 
under  her  husband’s  escort. 

“ She  thinks,”  Cuckoo  explained,  “ that  he  is 
quite  old  enough  to  rank  as  a chaperon,  and  she 
hoped  you  would  agree.” 

“ I am  sorry  to  disappoint  her  and  you,”  James 
replied,  “ but  I can’t  agree.  What  I have  heard 
about  this  man  Carew — and  I have  heard  a good 
deal  about  him  lately  from  Fitzroy  and  others — 


120 


THE  WIDOWER. 


does  not  lead  me  to  believe  that  he  is  in  any  way 
the  equivalent  of  a matron.  In  fact,  I meant  to 
have  said  to  you  that  I would  rather  you  saw  a little 
less  of  him  for  the  future.” 

“ Fitzroy,”  .observed  Cuckoo,  the  colour  mount- 
ing into  her  cheeks,  “ is  much  too  fond  of  meddling 
with  what  does  not  concern  him.” 

“ I shouldn’t  have  said  so;  he  seems  to  me  to  be 
a very  unassuming,  unobtrusive  young  fellow.  But, 
in  any  case,  what  you  ask  for  is  out  of  the  question; 
I can’t  allow  it.  Have  you  really  become  bitten  with 
a love  for  the  turf.  Cuckoo,  or  is  it  only  infection?  ” 

Cuckoo  answered  that  she  really  did  love  racing 
for  its  own  sake.  She  had  learned  a little  about 
it  of  late,  and  was  beginning  to  understand  what 
patience,  science,  and  art  are  needed  to  bring  a horse 
fit  to  the  post  and  then  ride  him  in  such  a manner 
as  to  get  all  that  there  is  in  him  out  of  him.  In 
all  the  world,  she  thought,  there  could  be  no  pas- 
time quite  so  exciting. 

“ Well,  yes,”  her  father  admitted,  “ if  you  look 
at  it  in  the  right  way  it  is  a fine  sport.  One  has 
no  right  to  decry  the  turf  as  an  institution  because 
most  of  the  men  who  go  racing  hardly  know  a horse’s 
head  from  his  tail,  or  because  so  many  of  them  are 
thieves.  Provided  that  you  don’t  bet,  I haven’t  a 
word  to  say  against  your  enjoying  yourself  on  race 
courses.  Only  it  would  not  do  for  you  to  be  seen 
at  Aintree,  or  anywhere  else,  with  Mr.  Carew  and 
without  a duenna.”  He  added  presently,  smiling, 
“ We  will  make  a compromise.  Like  your  friend 
Mrs.  Carew,  I really  don’t  feel  equal  to  that  double 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


121 


journey  between  sunrise  and  sunset,  but  I can  man- 
age, I believe,  to  absent  myself  from  the  House  for 
a couple  of  nights,  and  I have  never  seen  a Grand 
National  run.  May  I offer  my  company  as  a humble 
substitute  for  that  of  the  quite  impossible  sports- 
man? ” 

“ But  you  would  hate  it;  it  would  bore  you  to 
death! ” objected  Cuckoo. 

He  declared — truthfully,  too — that  it  would  have 
no  such  effect.  There  was  nothing  that  he  desired 
more  ardently  than  to  be  Cuckoo’s  friend  and  com- 
rade, and  since  there  were  few  things  that  she  desired 
more  ardently  than  to  become  his,  the  difficulty  of 
gratifying  their  respective  ambitions  should  not,  it 
may  be  thought,  have  been  found  insuperable.  Un- 
luckily, one  of  them  was  hampered  by  a profound 
self-distrust  and  a constitutional  dread  of  thrusting 
himself  where  he  was  not  wanted;  while  the  other 
could  overcome  neither  her  fear  of  her  father's  un- 
compromising rectitude  (she  had  not  the  courage, 
for  instance,  to  confess  that  she  did  occasionally  bet) 
nor  her  conviction  that  he  did  not  really  care  a straw 
for  anything  except  the  political  warfare  which  he 
evidently  deemed  her  incompetent  to  discuss. 

However,  they  started  off  on  that  pilgrimage  to 
Liverpool  together,  and  in  the  paddock  Miss  Cuckoo 
discovered  that  the  Bight  Honourable  gentleman  did, 
after  all,  know  something  about  a horse.  Not  very 
much,  perhaps,  still  enough  to  enable  him  to  point 
out  why  the  favourite,  with  12  stone  3 on  his  back, 
was  being  asked  to  achieve  more  than  could  reasonably 
be  expected  of  him.  Now  Cuckoo,  urged  thereto  by 


122 


THE  WIDOWER. 


the  confident  representations  of  Harry  Carew,  had, 
some  time  previously,  intrusted  this  magnificent  ani- 
mal with  no  less  a sum  than  a hundred  pounds  at 
3 to  1 — the  best  price  then  obtainable — and  after 
hearing  what  her  father  had  to  say,  as  well  as  what 
the  bookmakers  were  now  vociferously  offering,  she 
began  to  wish  with  all  her  heart  that  she  had  not 
been  such  a goose.  James  made  her  a liberal  allow- 
ance, but  her  expenditure  since  she  had  been  in  Lon- 
don had  also  been  conducted  upon  a very  liberal 
scale,  and  she  had  not  a hundred  pounds,  nor  any- 
thing like  it,  in  the  jewel  case  which  contained  her 
assets.  Worse  than  that,  she  had  several  unpaid 
bills,  which  she  hoped  to  defray  by  the  aid  of  what 
she  had  been  assured  was  an  absolute  certainty. 

Harry  Carew,  who  strolled  up  while  she  was  dis- 
consolately meditating  upon  the  uncertainty  which 
besets  all  human  and  equine  performances,  raised  her 
drooping  spirits  by  the  promptitude  with  which  he 
declared  that  all  was  going  to  be  well.  The  favourite 
simply  couldn’t  lose,  he  said,  and  his  backers  need  not 
feel  at  all  uneasy  about  the  unfounded  rumours 
which  had  sent  him  down  a few  points  in  the  bet- 
ting. 

“ For  my  owm  part,  I haven’t  hedged  a shilling, 
and  I shouldn’t  advise ” 

Cuckoo  was  obliged  to  stop  him  by  raising  her 
finger  to  her  lips  and  glancing  meaningly  at  her 
father,  who  was  talking  to  an  acquaintance  and 
whose  back  chanced  to  be  turned  at  the  moment. 

She  was  a little  ashamed  of  that  tacit  confession 
of  duplicity;  but  Harry,  nodding  slightly,  seemed  to 


DOUBTFUL  COMPANY. 


123 


take  it  quite  as  a matter  of  course.  He  resumed,  iu 
a louder  tone  of  voice,  for  Mr.  Pennant’s  benefit: 

“ You,  who  are  only  here  for  the  fun  of  the  thing, 
naturally  want  the  best  horse  to  win.  Unrighteous 
gamblers  like  me  can’t  always  afford  to  wish  for  that, 
but  on  this  occasion  I do.” 

James,  turning  round  to  see  who  the  unright- 
eous gambler  might  be,  was  at  first  rather  frigid  in 
his  demeanour,  although  he  made  a point  of  saying 
how  much  indebted  he  felt  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew 
for  their  kindness  to  his  daughter,  but  Harry  soon 
thawed  him  into  cordiality.  Nobody — not  even  the 
somewhat  numerous  persons  who  had  good  rea- 
son to  regret  having  ever  befriended  that  unscrupu- 
lous fellow — could  hold  out  long  against  his  invinci- 
ble good  humour — a good  humour  which  suffered 
no  apparent  diminution  when  the  favourite  blun- 
dered on  to  his  nose  at  the  second  fence,  thereby 
disposing  of  his  chances.  The  horse,  being  a game 
one,  was  remounted  and  persevered  with;  but  he 
just  failed  in  the  sequel  to  secure  a place;  so  that 
Harry,  who  had  backed  him  “ both  ways,”  must  have 
foreseen  an  extremely  disagreeable  interview  with  the 
lady  upon  whom  he  depended  for  financial  support  at 
times  of  evil  fortune.  But  his  only  remark  was: 

“ Dear  me!  what  a pity!  The  weights  were  right 
enough,  you  see,  and  but  for  that  unlucky  mistake 
in  the  first  few  furlongs  I should  have  been  three 
thousand  to  the  good.  Well,  it’s  the  fortune  of 
war!  ” 

Cuckoo  did  not  find  herself  able  to  face  calamity 

in  so  philosophic  a spirit.  “What  am  I to  do?” 

9 


124 


THE  WIDOWER. 


she  asked  in  an  agitated  whisper  of  her  confederate, 
who,  as  soon  as  the  chief  event  of  the  day  had  been 
decided,  announced  that  he  was  going  back  to  Lon- 
don. “ I am  afraid  that  I haven’t  nearly  enough 
money  to  pay  what  I owe.” 

“ Oh,  I’ll  settle;  don’t  worry  about  that,”  he  an- 
swered reassuringly.  “ Sorry  my  tip  didn’t  come  off, 
but  we  must  hope  for  better  luck  next  time.  Don’t 
say  a word  to  your  governor,  whatever  you  do;  one 
can  see  by  the  look  of  him  that  he  would  be  capable 
of  ordering  you  to  eschew  all  race  meetings  for  the 
future.” 

“ I rather  like  your  Harry  Carew,  do  you  know,” 
James  subsequently  remarked.  “ There  is  a devil- 
may-care  pluck  about  men  of  his  stamp  which  covers 
a multitude  of  sins.  If  he  stood  to  win  £3,000  it 
is  easy  to  calculate  what  he  must  have  lost,  and  he 
made  no  ugly  faces  over  it.  At  the  same  time,  I 
must  own  that  if  you  were  my  son  instead  of  being 
my  daughter  I should  be  a little  afraid  of  him. 
Fortunately,  there  is  no  danger  of  his  persuading 
you  to  back  winners  or  losers.” 

“Oh,  no!”  agreed  Cuckoo  faintly. 

Her  father  suddenly  brought  a pair  of  piercing 
eyes  to  bear  upon  her.  “Have  you  ever  backed  a 
horse?  ” he  inquired. 

And  then,  alas!  she  replied — being  terrified— 
with  a direct,  uncompromising  lie.  She  did  not  tell 
it  nearly  as  well  as  she  had  told  that  first  childish 
one,  which  had  been  forgiven,  though  perhaps  not 
forgotten,  and  James,  after  a pause,  persisted, 
“ Upon  your  honour?  ” 


DOULTFUL  COMPANY. 


125 


“ Upon  my  honour,”  she  echoed,  with  the  deci- 
sion of  despair. 

That  satisfied  her  father,  who  turned  a knife 
round  in  her  heart  by  observing:  “ I shouldn’t  have 
been  very  much  horrified  if  you  had.  It’s  a bad 
habit  and  it  doesn’t  pay,  but  nine  people  out  of  ten 
have  to  learn  wisdom  before  they  can  resist  the 
temptation  to  indulge  in  it.  However,  I am  glad 
it  hasn’t  laid  hold  of  you  yet,  and  I trust  you  to  let 
me  know  if  it  ever  does.” 


CHAPTER  X. 


BLACK  DESPAIK. 

The  disinterested  spectator  is  often  inclined  to 
wonder  why  high  political  personages  should  be  so 
eager  for  office,  since  it  must  surely  be  a great  deal 
more  pleasant  to  watch  and  criticise  harassed  re- 
sponsibility from  the  Opposition  side  of  the  House 
than  to  bear  upon  one’s  own  poor  shoulders  the  bur- 
den of  making  the  best  of  things.  It  is  asserted, 
to  be  sure,  by  the  ignoble,  that  official  salaries  and 
official  patronage  have  something  to  do  with  this 
keen  anxiety;  but  when  one  considers  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  former  and  the  endless  botherations 
which  are  inseparable  from  the  latter,  it  seems  more 
reasonable  to  believe  that  the  party  out  of  power 
longs  to  dispossess  the  party  in  power  merely  on 
account  of  profound  conviction  that  it  could  manage 
the  country’s  business  so  very  much  better  than  its 
opponents.  James  Pennant  was  rich  enough  to  snap 
his  finger  at  the  few  extra  thousands  a year,  and 
modest  enough  to  own  that  he  himself  was  liable  to 
error;  yet  he  could  not  carry  humility  quite  so  far 
as  to  doubt  that  the  Radicals  were  tampering  with 
the  honour  and  welfare  of  the  empire,  nor — more 
especially — did  it  seem  to  him  open  to  question  that 
126 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


127 


the  minister  who  was  at  that  time  answerable  for  the 
conduct  of  colonial  affairs  was  unworthy  of  the  con- 
fidence nominally  reposed  in  him  by  Parliament  and 
the  nation.  It  was  thus  his  palpable  duty  to  vex 
and  harry  that  minister,  or  rather  the  undersec- 
retary, who  sat  in  the  Lower  House,  upon  every 
available  opportunity,  and  stress  of  public  duty  may 
have  diverted  his  attention  from  matters  of  domestic 
interest  when  Cuckoo  and  he  returned  from  their 
sporting  excursion.  * 

At  any  rate,  he  did  not  appear  to  suspect  that  any- 
thing was  amiss — still  less  that  his  daughter  had, 
in  a moment  of  senseless  panic,  forfeited  all  claim 
upon  his  esteem.  He  was,  in  fact,  very  little  at 
home,  and  when  there  could  spare  no  more  time 
from  the  study  of  Blue  Books  than  was  required 
for  the  hasty  swallowing  of  meals.  If  he  did  find 
time,  one  afternoon,  to  call  upon  an  old  friend  in 
Berkeley  Square,  it  was  not  with  any  idea  of  de- 
manding from  her  an  account  of  the  stewardship 
which  she  had  somewhat  rashly  undertaken,  but  sim- 
ply because  he  knew  what  an  intelligent  interest 
Jane  Wardlaw  felt  in  contemporary  politics.  And 
the  truth  is  that  Lady  Wardlaw  heaved  a sigh  of 
relief  as  soon  as  this  was  made  evident  to  her,  for 
she  had  half  expected  to  be  assailed  with  reproaches 
which  she  was  conscious  of  having  in  some  degree 
earned. 

“ Oh,  it  is  utterly  monstrous  and  disgraceful!  ” 
she  agreed  after  her  visitor  had  expressed  himself 
forcibly  with  regard  to  the  political  situation;  “ one’s 
only  comfort  is  that  these  people  are  digging  their 


12S 


THE  WIDOWER. 


own  graves,  and  that,  when  once  we  have  got  rid 
of  them,  it  will  be  a long  time  before  they  get  an- 
other lease.” 

“ There  is  not  much  comfort,”  said  J ames,  “ in 
the  thought  that  we  shall  have  to  wait  for  a dis- 
aster to  get  rid  of  them.  As  far  as  home  measures 
are  concerned,  they  still  have  the  country  at  their 
backs,  and  the  average  elector,  not  to  say  the  average 
M.  P.,  is  too  dull  and  too  indifferent  to  realize  the 
catastrophe  that  Lord  Rochdale  is  preparing  for  us.” 

He  alluded  to  a dispute  which  had  arisen  between 
the  mother  country  and  one  of  our  most  important 
colonies;  a dispute  so  delicate  and  intricate  in  its 
nature,  and  so  deplorably  mismanaged  by  the  home 
authorities,  that  nothing  less  than  the  ultimate  loss 
of  the  colony  seemed  likely  to  prove  the  reward  of 
incapacity. 

“ What  a scandal  it  is,”  exclaimed  Lady  Wardlaw 
indignantly,  “ that  a notorious  old  duffer  like  Lord 
Rochdale  should  be  able  to  force  himself  upon  any 
Radical  ministry!  We  don’t  employ  such  men  on 
our  side.” 

“H’m!  well,  we  may  be  thankful,  at  all  events, 
that  we  couldn’t  if  we  would;  for  we  don’t  happen 
to  have  any  men  on  our  side  who  are  at  once  so 
feeble,  so  obstinate,  and  so  wrongheaded.  He  de- 
serves to  be  impeached.” 

“ How  you  detest  him!  ” 

“ I certainly  do  detest  him  as  a statesman.  In 
private  life  he  may,  for  anything  that  I know  to  the 
contrary,  be  no  worse  than  his  neighbours,  though 
his  manner  is  not  ingratiating.” 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


129 


“ Nobody  who  is  acquainted  with  the  Rochdales,” 
Lady  Wardlaw  declared,  “would  have  the  face  to 
breathe  one  word  in  his  favour.  Unless,  perhaps, 
that  he  is  just  a shade  less  offensive  than  his  wife.” 

“ Fitzroy,  I imagine,  might  find  a word  or  two  to 
say  in  favour  of  the  family,”  observed  James,  smiling. 

“ Are  you — er — disappointed  about  Fitzroy, 
James?  ” Lady  Wardlaw  asked,  almost  timidly.  “ It 
isn’t  my  fault,  you  know.” 

“ Disappointed?  Well,  a little  bit,  perhaps.  So 
far,  that  is,  as  one  can  be  said  to  be  disappointed 
when  a desirable  event,  upon  which  one  had  never 
dreamt  of  counting,  fails  to  come  off.  But  pray  don’t 
imagine  that  I feel  myself  in  the  least  aggrieved  by 
the  Rochdales — much  less  by  you,  to  whom  both 
Cuckoo  and  I owe  a deep  debt  of  gratitude.” 

“ It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  so,  and  of  course  there 
are  as  good  fish  in  the  water  as  ever  came  out  of  it. 
Fitzroy  Pennant,  after  all,  can’t  quite  take  rank  as 
a thirty-six-pounder.  Still,  the  fact  remains  that  I 
did  introduce  Cuckoo  to  the  Carews — and  I rather 
wish  I hadn’t.” 

James  raised  his  eyebrows.  “ What  do  you 
mean?”  he  inquired. 

What  Lady  Wardlaw  meant  was  that  she  was  be- 
ginning to  be  slightly  alarmed,  and  that  she  would 
like  somebody  who  had  more  influence  and  authority 
over  Cuckoo  than  she  could  boast  of  to  take  alarm 
also.  Otherwise  she  would  not  have  introduced  a 
subject  which  it  would  have  been  pleasanter  to  avoid. 
She  shrank,  however,  from  putting  the  case  in  such 
plain  language  as  that,  and  only  replied: 


130 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ Poor  Harry  has  the  worst  of  had  names;  I was 
afraid  you  might  not  be  very  well  pleased  with  me 
for  having  helped  to  bring  about  this  unexpected  in- 
timacy. Naturally,  I didn't  in  the  least  expect  any 
intimacy  at  all  to  follow,  and  I still  hope  that  no  harm 
will  come  of  it." 

“ I don't  see  what  harm  is  likely  to  come  of  it," 
James  said.  “ Mrs.  Carew,  from  all  that  I hear,  is 
an  entirely  harmless  person,  and  although  her  hus- 
band might  not,  I dare  say,  be  a very  well-chosen 
companion  for  a young  man,  he  can  hardly  teach  a 
girl  bad  habits.  He  has  taught  her  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  racing,  but  as  he  hasn't  taught  her  to  bet 
I don't  object  to  that.  The  more  interests  she  has 
in  life,  the  happier  she  will  be." 

Lady  Wardlaw  made  a little  impatient  gesture 
and  drew  in  her  breath  quickly,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
say  something.  What  she  did,  after  a pause  for 
reflection,  decide  to  say  was:  “ There  are  people 
with  daughters  and  people  with  young  wives  who 
even  now  think  it  prudent  to  decline  Harry  Carew's 
acquaintance.  One  didn't  feel  quite  certain  that  you 
might  not  be  one  of  them." 

James  protested,  with  a laugh,  that  he  was  not 
so  straitlaced  as  that.  “ I don't  believe  in  the  con- 
ventional system,  and  if  I did  I couldn't  apply  it 
to  Cuckoo,  who  will  have  to  rub  shoulders  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  on  her  way  through  the 
world.  She  brings,  as  far  as  I can  judge,  a tolerably 
keen  and  clear  faculty  of  discernment  to  bear  upon 
her  fellow-creatures,  so  that  she  will  soon  learn  what 
this  or  that  individual  among  them  is  worth.  For 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


131 


my  own  part,  I confess  to  a sneaking  affection  for 
scapegraces  of  the  Carew  type.  Their  faults  usu- 
ally lie  upon  the  surface  and  their  virtues  beneath 
it.” 

Lady  Wardlaw  was  of  opinion  that  any  one  who 
set  to  work  to  unearth  Harry  Carew’s  virtues  would 
find  extensive  excavations  necessary,  but  she  did  not 
insist.  It  was  evident  that  her  cousin  could  not, 
or  would  not,  take  a hint,  and  more  than  a hint  she 
was  not  as  yet  prepared  to  offer.  She  changed  the 
subject  by  remarking: 

“ I suppose  you  will  be  too  busy  to  look  in  at 
Retford  House  to-night  and  hear  Cuckoo  play.” 

“No,  indeed,”  answered  James;  “I  have  made 
arrangements  which  will  enable  me,  for  once,  to 
attend  the  performance.  In  fact,  the  family  will 
be  well  represented,  for  we  are  to  dine  with  the 
Arthur  Pennants  and  go  on  afterward  in  a body. 
I only  wish  I were  musical  enough  to  appreciate 
the  triumph  which  William  tells  me  that  Cuckoo 
is  sure  of  achieving.  As  it  is,  I shall  probably  only 
be  able  to  appreciate  her  audacity.” 

It  was,  no  doubt,  a trifle  audacious  for  so  young 
a performer  to  contemplate  appearing  before  a large 
assemblage  at  the  Charity  Concert  which  (by  kind 
permission  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Retford) 
was  to  take  place  in  Park  Lane  that  evening;  but 
Cuckoo  had  never  in  her  life  been  troubled  with 
mauvaise  honte.  She  knew  that  she  was  perfectly 
capable  of  doing  what  she  had  undertaken  to  do,  it 
was  practically  impossible  for  her  to  break  down,  and 
the  mere  fact  of  her  audience  being  numerous,  in- 


132 


THE  WIDOWER. 


stead  of  small,  inspired  her  with  no  terror.  Ah,  if 
the  evening  had  had  no  more  terrible  experience 
than  that  in  store  for  her!  But  something  infinitely 
worse  was  to  precede  it — something  which  she  had 
set  her  teeth  and  nerved  herself  to  go  through,  as 
we  all — whether  heroes  or  poltroons — must  needs 
do  when  the  fatal  hour  strikes  and  the  inevitable 
stands  face  to  face  with  us. 

Therefore  it  was  a pale  and  perturbed  little  per- 
son whom  James  found  waiting  for  him  in  his  so- 
called  study  when  he  returned  to  Ennismore  Gar- 
dens from  Berkeley  Square.  Cuckoo  so  rarely  en- 
tered that  room,  and  her  agitation  was  so  manifest, 
that  he  at  once  inquired  what  was  the  matter.  Was 
it  the  cook  or  the  butler  who  had  been  discovered  in 
a state  of  helpless  intoxication? 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ It  is  worse — much 
worse — than  that,”  she  answered.  “If  every  serv- 
ant in  the  house  were  drunk  and  incapable  things 
wouldn’t  be  half  as  bad  as  they  are.  Now  are  you 
prepared?  But  no!  nothing  that  I can  say  will 
prepare  you  in  the  least,  and  I don’t  know  how 
to  begin!  Yet  there  is  no  escape;  you  must  be 
told!  ” 

The  heart  of  the  Bight  Honourable  James  Pen- 
nant stood  still,  though  his  countenance  betrayed 
no  emotion.  There  swept  over  him  a sudden  shud- 
dering reminiscence  of  bygone  years,  when,  upon 
more  than  one  occasion,  an  exordium  couched  in 
somewhat  similar  terms  to  these  had  proved  the  pre- 
lude to  confessions  which  had  made  him  wish  him- 
self dead.  But  a moment’s  reflection  convinced  him 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


133 


of  the  absurdity  and  irrelevance  of  such  associations. 
It  was  inconceivable,  and  indeed  impossible,  that 
Cuckoo  could  have  trodden  in  poor  Ada’s  footsteps, 
or  that  he  could  again  be  called  upon  to  undergo 
the  humiliating  experiences  which  lay  buried  in  the 
half-forgotten,  wholly  forgiven  past. 

“ Well,  if  I must  be  told,”  he  said,  smiling,  “ the 
sooner  I am  told  the  better.  Sit  dowm  and  let  us 
hear  all  about  it.  So  long  as  it  is  nothing  disgrace- 
ful  ” 

“ But  it  is!  ” interrupted  the  girl  abruptly. 

“ What  I meant  to  say  was  that,  so  long  as  you 
yourself  have  done  nothing  disgraceful ” 

“ But  I have!  ” 

There  was  a pause,  during  which  J ames  sat  down 
in  his  writing  chair,  which  turned  upon  a pivot. 
Wheeling  round,  so  as  to  bring  his  back  toward  the 
light,  he  crossed  his  legs,  folded  his  hands,  and 
waited  for  further  elucidations.  Cuckoo,  who  had 
not  availed  herself  of  his  invitation  to  be  seated, 
thought  that  she  had  never  seen  any  one  look  so  calm- 
ly, coldly  implacable.  He  might  have  given  her  a 
helping  hand,  but  he  evidently  did  not  mean  to  do 
so,  and,  retreat  being  now  out  of  the  question,  she 
took  the  first  plunge  with  an  incoherent  rush  of 
words. 

“ I couldn’t  go  on  deceiving  you  any  longer — I 
dare  say  you  will  think  that  I only  speak  now  because 
I am  forced  to  speak,  but  it  isn’t  altogether  that — 
I should  have  spoken  before,  and  I have  often  had 
it  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue;  only — only  you  frighten 
me  so!  Besides,  I hoped — j' avals  ton  jours  Tidee  que 


134 


THE  WIDOWER. 


je  finirais  par  me  debrouiller — I did  not  want  to 
worry  you ■” 

As  her  father  continued  to  look  interrogative, 
without  moving  a muscle,  she  caught  her  breath 
despairingly  and  came  at  last  to  the  point.  “ I owe 
a great  deal  of  money,  which  I can’t  pay!  ” 

“ Oh,  is  that  it?  And  what  do  you  call  a great 
deal?”  James  inquired. 

Cuckoo  hung  her  head.  “ I am  afraid  it  is  nearly 
three  hundred  pounds,”  she  murmured.  “ Yes,  it 
is  quite  three  hundred  pounds — perhaps — almost — as 
much  as  three  hundred  and  fifty.  There!” 

“ Are  you  sure  it  is  not  more?  ” 

“ I am  sure  it  can  not  be  more.  Is  not  that 
enough! ” 

“ Well,  yes;  it  is  certainly  a very  large  sum  for 
you  to  have  got  through  in  so  short  a time,  and  I 
hardly  understand  how  you  can  have  managed  to 
have  spent  it.  You  must  have  been  extravagant  to 
a degree  far  beyond  our  means,  and  if  the  allowance 
that  I make  you  is  insufficient — as  it  may  very  likely 
be — I wish  you  had  frankly  told  me  so.  However, 
we  will  look  into  matters  and  see  what  can  be  done. 
You  have  the  bills,  I presume?  ” 

Cuckoo  silently  produced  from  her  pocket  a 
sheaf  of  crumpled  documents,  for  which  her  father 
held  out  his  hand.  He  turned  round  to  his  writing 
table  and,  taking  a pencil  and  a scrap  of  paper,  rap- 
idly added  up  the  totals. 

“ A hundred  and  eighty  pounds  odd,”  he  re- 
marked presently.  “ Where  are  the  others?” 

“ There  aren’t  any  others,”  a tremulous  voice  re- 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


135 


plied  from  behind  him.  “ The  rest  of  the  money — 
the  money  which  I hoped  would  pay  these — went  in 
backing  horses  that  didn’t  win!  ” 

The  murder  was  out  now;  he  knew  all  that  he 
could  want  to  know — perhaps  even  a little  more — 
so  it  only  remained  to  sink  down  upon  the  nearest 
chair  and  await  judgment.  From  this  she  was  still 
separated  by  some  seconds  of  sickening  silence. 

“ I understood  you  to  tell  me,  upon  your  hon- 
our,” J ames  remarked  at  length  very  quietly,  “ that 
you  had  never  backed  a horse.  May  I take  it  that 
that  statement  was  true  at  the  time  when  it  was 
made?  ” 

For  one  moment  she  had  a wild  inclination  to 
avail  herself  of  the  loophole  thus  provided  for  her, 
but  she  put  it  away,  with  an  outward  sweep  of  both 
hands,  remembering  the  disastrous  results  of  former 
childish  duplicity.  “ I have  been  putting  a little 
money  on  ever  since  I first  began  to  go  racing  with 
Mr.  Carew,”  she  answered  firmly  and  almost  sullenly. 
“ He  has  been  most  unlucky  of  late,  and  so  have  I. 
As  he  has  paid  for  me,  and  as  I knew  that  you  would 
rather  I did  anything  than  remain  in  his  debt,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  confess.” 

She  was  going  to  add  something  about  the  sorrow 
and  remorse  which  she  felt,  but  the  foolish,  useless, 
unmeaning  words  died  away  upon  her  lips.  What 
chance  was  there  of  their  doing  more  than  deepen 
the  stern  disdain  with  which  she  was  conscious — al- 
though she  did  not  look  up — of  being  surveyed? 

“ I see,”  said  her  father  presently,  “ that  time 
has  not  altered  you.” 


136 


THE  WIDOWER. 


That  was  really  the  only  reproach  which  he 
deemed  it  necessary  or  worth  while  to  address  to  her. 
He  said  that,  if  she  would  be  so  good  as  to  let  him 
know  the  exact  sum  due  to  Mr.  Carew,  it  should  at 
once  be  paid,  and  he  must  of  course  take  measures  to 
prevent,  as  far  as  possible,  any  recurrence  of  such 
liabilities.  As  for  the  bills  owing  to  milliners  and 
others,  they  also  would  be  defrayed,  and  he  would 
ask  her  for  the  future  to  keep  her  expenditure  within 
the  limits  that  a man  who  was  neither  rich  nor  poor 
could  afford.  Apparently  he  had  no  further  request 
or  command  to  formulate,  so  that  at  last  Cuckoo  was 
fain  to  falter  out: 

“ I hope  you  won’t  quarrel  with  Mr.  Carew;  it 
was  no  fault  of  his.” 

“ I am  not  a quarrelsome  person,”  James  replied. 
“ I do  not  myself  think  that  a gentleman  would  have 
encouraged  a young  girl  to  bet  upon  the  results  of 
races  to  the  extent  that  you  have  done,  but  I shall 
not  say  so  in  writing  to  your  friend.  I shall  merely 
mention  that  this  is  not  to  happen  again,  and  he  will 
probably  understand  me.  I find  that  in  dealing  with 
men  I can  generally  manage  to  make  myself  under- 
stood.” 

He  had  likewise  found  that  in  dealing  with 
women  he  had  never  been  able  to  do  anything  of 
the  sort.  If  from  that  he  was  led  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  nine  women  out  of  every  ten  are  essen- 
tially false,  who  can  blame  him?  With  or  against 
our  will  we  all  inevitably  judge  by  personal  experi- 
ence, and  his  had  been  a bitter  one.  His  heart  was 
full  now  of  a bitterness  so  intense  that  the  only 


BLACK  DESPAIR. 


137 


thing  to  be  done  with  it,  by  his  way  of  thinking, 
was  to  devour  it  silently  and  stoically.  Cuckoo,  be- 
ing a woman,  was  what  she  was;  there  was  no  more 
to  be  said  to  any  purpose.  At  the  end  of  another 
minute  or  so  he  was  moved  to  compassion  by  the 
sight  of  her  pallor  and  her  heavy,  tearless  eyelids. 

“ Ought  we  not  to  go  and  dress  for  dinner?  ” he 
asked,  in  a rather  gentler  voice. 

Cuckoo  rose  obediently,  but  stood,  hesitating, 
for  an  instant.  Then,  stretching  out  a timid  hand, 
she  just  touched  him  on  the  sleeve  and  began, 
“ Father! ” 

James  drew  back.  “ Oh,  I think  we  won’t  make 
a scene  about  it,”  he  said.  “ You  have  spent  more 
than  you  ought  to  have  done,  and  you  have  tried, 
by  about  the  most  foolish  method  that  you  could 
have  adopted,  to  make  your  accounts  square.  I have 
no  doubt  that  this  failure  will  be  a lesson  to  you.” 

“ It  will  indeed!”  she  eagerly  assured  him;  “I 
shall  never  have  another  bet  as  long  as  I live!  But — 
but  that  is  not  all,  is  it?  ” 

“Well,  no,”  James  agreed,  “that  is  not  all.” 

But  he  evidently  could  not  say,  and  did  not  mean 
to  say,  that  he  forgave  her  for  having  pledged  her 
honour  to  a lie;  so  she  turned  to  leave  him,  with 
slow,  dragging  steps,  hoping  against  hope  that  he 
would  recall  her  before  she  reached  the  door.  How- 
ever, she  was  suffered  to  depart,  and  as  she  mounted 
the  staircase  nothing  seemed  to  her  more  certain 
than  that  she  had,  this  time,  finally  and  irrevocably 
lost  her  father’s  love  as  well  as  his  respect. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE. 

The  woman,  young  or  old,  who  has  reached  the 
point  of  not  caring  an  atom  whether  she  is  well  or 
ill  dressed  must  either  be  a most  eccentric  specimen 
of  her  sex  or  an  exceedingly  unhappy  one,  and 
Cuckoo’s  recent  unbounded  prodigality  had  been  in 
large  measure  due  to  the  fact  that  she  possessed, 
and  was  aware  of  possessing,  perfect  taste  in  the 
matter  of  attire.  This  had  led  her  to  employ  the 
most  renowned  and  most  extortionate  coutourieres, 
for  she  had  felt  that  no  inferior  artist  could  ade- 
quately carry  out  her  conceptions.  Yet,  when  she 
reached  her  bedroom,  she  did  not  so  much  as  cast 
a glance  at  the  lovely  costume  which  lay  spread  out 
waiting  for  her;  nor  had  she  a word  to  bestow  upon 
Budgett,  who  was  also  waiting  for  her,  and  had  been 
waiting  some  time. 

Budgett,  always  tenacious  of  her  rights,  felt 
that  something  in  the  shape  of  an  apology  was  due 
to  her,  therefore  she  snorted  aloud.  “Well,”  she  be- 
gan, “you  are  late!  If  you  expect  me  to  get  your 
hair  done  as  it  should  be  in  less  than  half  an  hour, 
you  expect  what  you  won’t  have,  that’s  all  I can  say! 

138 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE,  139 


What  ever  have  you  been  about  in  your  pa’s  study  all 
this  time?” 

“ Oh,  don’t  bother!”  was  Cuckoo’s  discourteous 

reply. 

Budgett,  who  was  really  attached  to  her  young 
mistress,  and  who  perceived  that  the  latter  was  un- 
happy as  well  as  cross,  might  perhaps  have  submitted 
to  this  snub  had  she  not,  unfortunately,  been  the 
most  inquisitive  of  mortals;  but,  being  thus  afflicted 
with  the  malady  of  her  sex  in  an  acute  form,  it 
was  altogether  impossible  for  her  to  hold  her  peace. 
A stormy  interview  had  evidently  taken  place  be- 
tween Mr.  Pennant  and  his  daughter,  and  that  its 
causes  and  results  should  be  kept  secret  was  more 
than  a self-respecting  woman  who  had  for  so 
many  years  held  a post  of  responsibility  could  en- 
dure. She  accordingly  proceeded  to  put  question 
after  question,  and  in  default  of  reply  to  make 
suggestions  which  were  not  wanting  in  plausibility 
until  Cuckoo,  fairly  out  of  patience,  turned  upon 
her  with: 

“ Budgett,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  mind  your 
owm  business? — which  is  to  arrange  my  hair,  not 
to  pluck  whole  tufts  of  it  out  by  the  roots,  while  you 
try  to  discover  whether  I have  exceeded  my  allow- 
ance or  not.” 

“ I know  you  have,  my  dear,”  Budgett  loftily  re- 
turned; “you  can’t  deceive  me  in  a matter  of  that 
kind.  And  remembering,  as  I do,  what  trouble 
there  was  long  ago  with  your  poor,  dear ” 

“ Hold  your  tongue!  ” interrupted  Cuckoo. 

Budgett  immediately  laid  down  the  brushes  of 
10 


140 


THE  WIDOWER. 


office  and  took  two  steps  backward,  with  the  air  of 
a tragedy  queen.  “ This  to  me! ” she  ejaculated. 

“ Yes;  if  you  choose  to  take  such  liberties,  you 
must  expect  to  be  reminded  of  your  proper  place.” 

“My  proper  place!”  echoed  Budgett,  with  tears 
of  fury  in  her  eyes — “ you,  whom  I have  took  care 
of,  as  I may  say,  from  your  cradle,  to  tell  me  what 
my  proper  place  is!  Well,  Miss  Pennant,  we  shall 
see  what  your  father  thinks  of  your  language.  For 
without  you  beg  my  pardon  this  minute  straight 
to  him  do  I go,  and  my  duty  it  will  be  to  let  him 
know  how  I have  been  insulted!  ” 

“ You  may  go  where  you  please  and  say  what 
you  like,  so  long  as  you  leave  the  room,”  returned 
the  equally  incensed  Cuckoo.  “ I certainly  shall  not 
beg  your  pardon.” 

Budgett,  without  more  ado,  flounced  out  of  the 
room,  slamming  the  door  behind  her,  and  it  became 
necessary  to  summon  the  head  housemaid  to  act  as  her 
substitute.  The  head  housemaid  proved  clumsy  and 
inefficient,  so  that  much  delay  ensued,  and  Miss  Pen- 
nant’s toilet  was  completed  with  more  haste  than 
skill.  However,  that  afforded  all  the  more  time  for 
the  badgering  and  baiting  of  the  Right  Honourable 
gentleman  downstairs.  Somebody  must  needs  suffer 
when  revolutionary  forces  break  loose,  and  the  first 
victims — as  indeed  is  only  right  and  just — are  usu- 
ally found  at  headquarters. 

James,  who  had  dressed  quickly,  was  seated  in 
his  study  examing  papers  with  wearied,  worried 
eyes,  when  outraged  fidelity  in  the  person  of  Budgett 
invaded  his  solitude. 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE.  141 


“What  do  you  want?”  he  asked  resignedly. 

He  knew  pretty  well — not  being  at  his  first  ex- 
perience  of  these  invasions — what  she  was  going  to 
say,  and  he  also  knew  that  no  power  on  earth  would 
restrain  her  from  saying  it.  So  he  pushed  the  docu- 
ments which  he  had  been  perusing  into  a drawer, 
folded  his  hands,  and  listened  as  patiently  as  if  he 
had  been  on  the  Treasury  bench  receiving  the  on- 
slaught  of  some  captious  Opposition  orator. 

Budgett’s  oration  was  very  much  what  he  had 
anticipated  that  it  would  be.  She  was  sorry  to  trou- 
ble him,  but  she  really  must  ask  him  to  speak  to 
Miss  Cuckoo.  “ Which  the  words  she  has  used  to  me 
this  evening  I can  not  put  up  with,  and  I do  feel, 
sir,  as  I didn’t  ought  to  remain  any  longer  in  my 
situation  if  this  is  allowed  to  go  on.” 

James  Pennant  never  lost  his  temper,  but  upon 
this  occasion  he  was  less  disposed  than  usual  to  en- 
dure gratuitous  molestation,  and  when  he  had  heard 
the  complainant  out,  he  remarked  rather  dryly: 

“ It  appears  that  you  have  been  told  to  hold  your 
tongue.  That,  I admit,  is  not  a polite  injunction, 
but  I do  not  gather  that  it  was  unprovoked,  nor  am 
I prepared  to  interfere  between  you  and  Miss  Pen- 
nant every  time  that  a disagreement  of  this  sort 
occurs.  In  short,  Budgett,  if  you  are  not  satisfied 
with  your  situation  you  had  better  leave  it.” 

Hot  having  the  remotest  intention  of  leaving, 
Budgett  drew  herself  up  and  replied  that  she  would 
think  it  over. 

“Very  well;  only  you  must  understand,  please, 
that  when  you  threaten  to  give  warning,  you  are 


142 


THE  WIDOWEB. 


in  some  danger  of  being  taken  at  your  word.  You 
have  been  a good  many  years  in  my  service,  and  in 
recognition  of  the  fact  I allow  you  some  latitude, 
besides  paying  you  high  wages,  but  you  can  not  be 
permitted  to  dictate  either  to  me  or  to  your  mistress. 
If  you  are  a sensible  woman,  you  will  not  presume 
too  far  upon  my  patience.” 

Although  Budgett  was  anything  but  a sensible 
woman,  she  knew  Mr.  Pennant  well  enough  to  be 
aware  that  what  he  said  he  meant,  so  she  contrived 
to  swallow  down  the  voluble  protest  against  Cuckoo’s 
being  spoken  of  as  her  mistress  which  rose  to  her 
lips  and  went  near  to  choking  her.  Moreover,  she 
was  rescued  from  temptation  by  the  entrance  of  the 
butler,  who  now  came  in  to  announce  that  the  car- 
riage was  at  the  door  and  that  Miss  Pennant  was 
waiting  in  the  hall. 

“ I am  afraid,”  said  J ames  to  his  companion, 
while  they  were  being  driven  rapidly  toward  their 
destination,  “ that  we  may  have  to  part  with  Budg- 
ett; her  impertinence  is  becoming  intolerable.  She 
forgets — not  unnaturally,  I dare  say — that  you  are 
no  longer  a child,  and  that  she  is  now  more  your 
servant  than  mine.” 

“ She  told  me  that  she  meant  to  complain  to 
you,”  Cuckoo  observed. 

“ Yes,  and  I hope  she  will  not  do  so  any  more, 
for  it  is  out  of  my  power  to  compose  squabbles  be- 
tween mistress  and  maid.  If  you  wish  to  retain 
her  services,  you  might  give  her  a hint  to  that  effect. 
For  my  own  part,  I doubt  whether  she  will  ever 
become  reconciled  to  the  necessary  change  in  her 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE.  143 


position,  and  I should  not  be  sorry  to  see  her  estab- 
lished elsewhere.  But  act  as  you  think  best  in  the 
matter.” 

He  spoke  as  though  a certain  tragic  conversation 
had  passed  clean  away  from  his  memory,  leaving  no 
scars  behind.  Possibly  he  did  not  mean  to  intimate 
that  Cuckoo  might  for  the  future  act  as  she  pleased 
with  reference  to  all  matters,  as  long  as  she  ab- 
stained from  annoying  one  who  despised  her  too 
heartily  to  view  her  proceedings  otherwise  than  with 
indifference,  but  that  was  what  she  took  him  to  im- 
ply. And  it  is  needless  to  add  that  a severer  mode 
of  punishment  would  have  been  infinitely  more  wel- 
come to  her.  However,  since  he  did  not  care,  and 
since  he  had  neither  pardon  nor  pity  to  bestow  upon 
her,  why  should  she  not  pay  him  out  in  his  own 
coin? 

“ I don’t  want  Budgett  to  leave,”  said  she.  “ I 
was  cross  and  I spoke  rudely  to  her,  but  it  really 
wasn’t  worth  while  to  be  cross.  Very  few  things 
are  worth  being  cross  about,  are  they?” 

In  order  to  prove  the  sincerity  of  her  philoso- 
phy, she  displayed  a flow  of  exuberant  spirits  when 
they  arrived — very  much  behind  their  time — at  the 
house  of  their  relatives,  and  was  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  small  family  dinner  party  which  followed. 
Cuckoo’s  gift  of  unexaggerated  mimicry  was  most 
amusing,  and  she  now  saw  fit  to  exercise  it  for  the 
benefit  of  her  aunt  and  cousins,  at  the  expense  of 
divers  common  acquaintances  of  theirs,  so  that  the 
meal  was  to  all  outward  appearance  a merry  one.  Mrs. 
Arthur  Pennant  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled  down 


144 


THE  WIDOWER. 


her  cheeks,  and  Gwen  and  Ella  followed  suit.  Only 
James  remained  wonderingly  grave,  while  Fitzroy’s 
hilarity  might  have  struck  a close  observer  as  being 
just  a trifle  forced. 

Eitzroy,  indeed,  had  divined — how  is  one  to  ac- 
count for  the  divinations  and  unexpected  sympathies 
of  avowedly  stupid  persons? — that  his  cousin’s  gaiety 
was  less  spontaneous  than  it  affected  to  be,  and  after 
dinner  he  made  so  bold  as  to  ask  her  point-blank 
what  was  wrong  with  her.  “ Because  it’s  as  plain 
as  the  nose  upon  your  face  that  there’s  something 
wrong,”  he  added,  by  way  of  explaining  his  query. 

“ Nervousness,”  she  replied  at  once.  “ Do  you 
think  I can  seat  myself  at  the  piano  upon  a public 
platform,  as  I shall  have  to  do  presently,  without 
making  frantic  exertions  to  screw  up  my  courage  in 
advance?  ” 

“ I am  quite  sure  you  can;  I doubt  whether  you 
know  what  nervousness  means,  and  I don’t  believe 
you  have  been  giving  a thought  to  the  concert  all 
this  time.  What  you  were  trying  to  do  was  to  make 
Uncle  James  writhe — and  you  succeeded.” 

“ You  think  so?  Well — and  afterward?  ” 

“ I wouldn’t,  if  I were  you,  that’s  all,”  said  Fitz- 
roy.  “ What  is  the  use?  The  chances  are  that  if 
you  and  he  have  fallen  out,  he  has  been  in  the  right, 
and  hurting  his  feelings  won’t  put  him  in  the  wrong, 
you  know.” 

“ Why  should  you  think  that  I want  to  put  him 
in  the  wrong?  Isn’t  it  a good  deal  more  likely  that 
I want  to  show  him  how  little  I myself  mind  being 
in  the  wrong?  ” 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE.  145 


“Yes,  perhaps.  It’s  about  that  fellow  Carew,  I 
suppose.” 

“ You  have  no  reason  to  suppose  so  that  I know 
of;  but  if  it  were?  I assure  you  that  I am  not  in 
the  least  ashamed  of  being  a friend  of  Mr.  Carew’s.” 

Fitzroy  looked  distressed.  “ Don’t  be  so  foolish 
and  obstinate,  Cuckoo,”  he  entreated;  “ you  will 
only  end  by  getting  yourself  into  trouble.  I won’t 
offend  you  a second  time  by  abusing  the  man,  but  at 
least  you’ll  allow  that  his  friendship,  whatever  it  may 
be  worth,  isn’t  worth  a quarrel  with  your  father. 
Of  course  you  know  Uncle  James  a great  deal  better 
than  I do,  but  he  strikes  me  as  being  the  sort  of 
person  who  doesn’t  quarrel  easily,  and  when  he  does 
very  seldom  makes  it  up  again.” 

“ Ah,  and  does  it  strike  you  that  he  has  quarrelled 
with  me  now?” 

“ Well,  you  never  once  looked  at  him  during 
dinner,  I noticed.  If  you  had,  you  would  have  seen 
that  he  is  taking  things  hard.  Come,  now,  Cuckoo — 
is  it  worth  while?  ” 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  mentor,  whose  kindly, 
comely  face  was  not  very  far  distant  from  hers,  and 
whose  honest  anxiety  and  affection  she  could  not 
doubt.  For  a moment  she  was  more  than  half  in- 
clined to  make  a clean  breast  of  her  troubles  to 
him,  and  had  she  yielded  to  that  salutary  impulse 
it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  she  would  have 
been  spared  much  subsequent  misery.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  His  mother  came  bustling  up  to  say  that 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  and  presently,  while  on 
the  way  to  Retford  House,  that  well-meaning  lady 


146 


THE  WIDOWER. 


proceeded  to  spoil  everything  by  confidentially  advis- 
ing her  niece  to  drop  Harry  Carew. 

“ I hate  being  interfered  with  myself,  and  I try 
not  to  meddle  in  other  people’s  business  more  than 
I can  help,  but  it’s  only  fair  to  let  you  know  that 
people  are  beginning  to  talk.  Fitz  has  been  fussing 
about  things  which  he  has  heard  through  his  friends 
the  Rochdales — who  are  no  friends  to  your  father, 
by  the  way — and  I don’t  suppose  you  know  how 
much  harm  may  be  done  to  a girl  by  gossip  of  that 
kind.  I remember  Harry  Carew  as  a good  fellow 
in  his  way  and  a fine  rider  across  country,  but  he 
is  no  use  now  for  that  or  any  other  purpose,  and, 
after  the  games  that  he  has  carried  on  under  her 
nose,  his  wife  hardly  counts  as  a chaperon.  Be  ad- 
vised by  me,  and  have  no  more  to  do  with  him.” 

It  was  doubtless  perverse  and  ridiculous  of 
Cuckoo  to  conclude  from  this  that  Fitzroy’s  solici- 
tude on  her  behalf  was  due  to  his  fear  of  losing 
caste  in  the  eyes  of  Lady  Rochdale  and  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Tufnell;  but  such  was  the  conclusion  that  she 
formed,  and  the  unfortunate  effect  of  it  was  to  make 
her  nobly  decide  that  she  would  stand  by  her  friends. 
Her  father  might,  if  he  chose,  order  her  to  cut  them, 
but  he  had  not  done  so  yet,  and  until  he  did  she  would 
not  be  scared  away  from  them  either  by  calumny  or 
by  counsels  of  worldly  prudence. 

Meanwhile  it  behooved  her  to  concentrate  her  at- 
tention upon  the  task  immediately  before  her,  and 
this  she  was  able  to  contemplate  without  a touch  of 
that  sinking  apprehension  which  is  apt  to  paralyze 
the  fingers  of  less  self-confident  performers.  She 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  TIER  AUDIENCE.  14  7 


had  undertaken  to  tackle  a couple  of  Schumann’s 
Etudes  Symplioniques — not  too  easy,  yet  quite  man- 
ageable, seeing  that  she  knew  every  note  of  them  by 
heart  and  had  long  ago  been  taught  how  to  play 
them  by  the  most  exacting  of  instructors.  In  her 
second  appearance,  as  interpreter  of  a somewhat  hack- 
neyed prelude  by  Chopin,  she  was  not  less  sure  of 
acquitting  herself  creditably.  Still,  she  was  anxious, 
for  several  reasons,  to  earn  rather  more  than  that 
meed  of  approval  which  must  needs  be  accorded  by 
no  matter  how  stupid  an  audience  to  correctness,  com- 
bined with  brilliancy;  so,  when  the  moment  came  for 
her  to  advance  to  the  front  of  the  platform,  she 
felt  quite  in  the  -mood  to  astonish  the  appreciative. 

And,  as  a matter  of  fact,  she  did  astonish  Sir 
William  and  Lady  Wardlaw,  who,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
were  almost  the  only  true  cognoscenti  present.  The 
former  applauded  rapturously,  both  with  hands  and 
tongue.  It  was  a sin  and  a shame,  he  declared,  that 
people  who  had  only  paid  a paltry  guinea  for  their 
seats  should  be  given  such  a treat  as  that,  sandwiched 
in  between  a rubbishy  ballad  and  a solo  on  the  fiddle 
by  a notoriously  incompetent  amateur.  He  plunged 
across  the  room  to  congratulate  James,  who  received 
his  compliments  submissively  and  without  apparent 
emotion;  he  proclaimed  for  the  benefit  of  all  who 
heard  him  that  Miss  Pennant  could  give  “ pounds 
and  a beating 99  to  any  professional  pianist — bar  one, 
or  perhaps  two — at  that  time  to  be  found  in  London. 

Well,  Sir  William  was  of  course  an  authority, 
and  it  was  safe  to  follow  his  lead;  so  the  young  lady 
achieved  what  might  very  well  be  described  as  a 


148 


THE  WIDOWER. 


triumph.  If  it  failed  to  satisfy  her,  that  was  only 
because  she  was  conscious  of  having  failed  in  her 
object.  From  her  elevated  position  she  could  sur- 
vey at  her  ease  row  after  row  of  upturned  faces,  and 
these,  with  the  solitary  exception  of  Sir  William 
Wardlaw’s,  did  not  wear  the  expression — or  rather 
the  various  expressions — which  she  had  wished  them 
to  wear.  Her  father,  pale,  stern,  and  melancholy, 
seemed  to  be  thinking  about  matters  with  which 
concerts  had  no  conection;  Fitzroy,  seated  beside 
Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell,  was  clapping  a large  pair 
of  hands  perfunctorily,  without  ceasing  to  gaze  at 
his  neighbour,  while  Harry  Carew,  far  away  in  the 
background,  was  only  too  obviously  upon  the  brink 
of  slumber.  It  was  evident  that  neither  Schumann 
nor  Miss  Cuckoo  could  say  very  much  to  these  self- 
engrossed  persons. 

However,  she  did  rather  better  with  Chopin.  So 
admirable  was  her  rendering  of  Opus  28,  Ho.  15, 
by  that  composer  that  the  demand  for  its  repetition 
was  not  to  be  ignored,  and  when,  after  some  delay, 
she  was  led  back  to  the  instrument,  Cuckoo  per- 
ceived that  her  opportunity  had  come.  The  silence 
which  ensued  was  broken  suddenly  by  her  clear  voice, 
as  she  turned  toward  the  audience  and  smilingly  said: 
“ Well,  you  have  heard  it  done  in  one  way — which 
is  the  right  way.  Now  you  shall  hear  something 
else" 

What  those  startled,  attentive  ladies  and  gentle- 
men heard  was  a really  excellent  piece  of  mimicry; 
a marvellously  exact  reproduction  of  the  style  and 
peculiarities  of  a pianist  who  was  at  that  time  justly 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE.  149 


celebrated  and  to  whom  they  had  all  listened.  They 
were  tickled;  they  were  delighted;  they  gave  vent 
to  their  admiration  after  a fashion  much  more  vocif- 
erous than  was  their  habit,  and  Cuckoo,  bowing  her 
acknowledgments,  said  to  herself:  “ Ca  y est!” 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  what  an 
impression  she  had  produced  upon  Fitzroy;  also  she 
saw  that  her  father,  frowning  slightly  and  looking 
puzzled,  had  risen  to  cross  the  room  toward  the  chairs 
where  the  Wardlaws  were  seated. 

“ He  doesn’t  understand,”  she  thought  to  herself; 
“ but  they  will  tell  him,  and  it  will  make  him  wince.” 

They  did  tell  him,  and  he  did  wince — if  there 
was  any  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  that.  She  had 
shown  Fitzroy  how  infinitely  cleverer  she  was  than 
Lady  Elizabeth — if  there  was  any  satisfaction  to  be 
got  out  of  that.  But,  as  she  had  already  inflicted 
about  as  much  pain  upon  poor  James  as  she  had  it 
in  her  power  to  inflict,  and  as  Fitzroy  had  never  for 
a moment  doubted  her  surpassing  cleverness,  this 
success  was  perhaps,  after  all,  scarcely  worth  the  dis- 
play of  bad  taste  by  which  it  had  been  won. 

That  she  had  been  guilty  of  extremely  bad  taste 
was  the  decided  opinion  of  Lady  Wardlaw,  whom 
she  presently  descended  into  the  auditorium  to  join 
and  who  said,  with  visible  annoyance:  “Your  father 
asked  us  to  take  care  of  you  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing. He  has  to  go  down  to  the  House,  it  seems, 
and  I don’t  think  he  is  particularly  fond  of  music- 
hall  exhibitions.” 

Sir  William  shook  his  head  and  wagged  a re- 
proving forefinger  at  her.  “Oh,  you  little  villain!” 


150 


THE  WIDOWER. 


he  exclaimed.  “ Uncommonly  well  done,  I grant 
you;  but ” 

“ But  that  sort  of  thing  isn't  done,”  struck  in 
Lady  Wardlaw  with  unwonted  asperity,  “and  you 
ought  to  know  it!  No  girl  of  your  age  can  afford  to 
be  so  impertinent  or  so — so ” 

“ So  funny?  ” suggested  her  husband. 

“ That  wasn’t  quite  the  word  that  I wanted, 
thank  you;  still,  as  a matter  of  fact,  one  didn’t  con- 
sent to  Cuckoo’s  taking  part  in  a serious  concert  in 
order  that  she  might  show  how  funny  she  could  be. 
This,  I can  foresee,  will  take  some  living  down.” 

“ But  I did  amuse  the  company,”  pleaded  Cuckoo 
demurely,  “ and,  poor  things,  they  looked  as  if  they 
wanted  a little  amusement  so  very  badly!” 

She  had,  at  all  events,  succeeded  in  amusing  one 
of  the  company,  who  hastened  to  tell  her  so,  although 
he  confessed  in  the  same  breath  that  he  had  never 
heard,  nor  even  until  five  minutes  ago  heard  of,  the 
subject  of  her  satire. 

“You  were  splendid!”  declared  Harry  Carew, 
as  he  took  possession  of  a vacant  chair  behind  her; 
“ everybody  says  you  were  splendid.  What  spirits  you 
have!  ” 

“Why  do  you  say  that?”  Cuckoo  quickly  in- 
quired over  her  shoulder.  “ What  is  there  to  aston- 
ish you  in  my  spirits  being  good?  ” 

He  made  the  reply  which  she  had  anticipated  and 
dreaded.  “ Your  governor  was  so  kind  as  to  mention 
to  me  before  he  left  that  he  had  posted  a letter  and 
a check  to  my  address.  I gathered  from  his  ex- 
tremely polite  manner  and  from  the  expression  of  his 


CUCKOO  DIVERTS  HER  AUDIENCE.  151 


speaking  countenance  that  there  had  been  a bit  of 
a rumpus.  How  on  earth  did  he  find  out  that  you 
and  I had  been  backing  wrong  uns?  ” 

The  obligatory  hush  during  which  a lady  of  ma- 
ture years  announced,  in  a heartrending  falsetto,  that 
her  lost  love  would  come  back  to  her  no  more 
prevented  Cuckoo  from  entering  into  explanations, 
and  immediately  after  the  retirement  of  the  vocalist 
her  attention  was  claimed  by  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell, 
who  approached,  escorted  by  Fitzroy,  to  say  how  im- 
mensely Miss  Pennant  had  diverted  all  their  party. 

“ So  extraordinarily  clever  of  you!  If  one  had 
shut  one’s  eyes,  one  could  have  sworn  that  one  was  lis- 
tening to  the  original.  But  what  a mercy  that  he 
wasn’t  present!  It  would  have  been  too  dreadful  for 
him,  poor  man!  Is  his  way  of  playing  Chopin  really 
all  wrong?  I have  admired  him  so  much,  and  I am 
afraid  I shall  never  be  able  to  admire  him  again 
now!  ” 

Lady  Elizabeth,  who  had  the  name  of  being  a 
sweet  girl,  naturally  endeavoured  to  show  herself 
worthy  of  her  reputation.  She  now  wore  an  inno- 
cent, wondering,  slightly  conscience-stricken  air 
which  was  highly  becoming,  and  the  provoking  thing 
was  that  Fitzroy  evidently  thought  all  the  better  of 
her  for  looking  like  that. 

“ I suppose  you  mean,”  answered  Cuckoo,  “ that 
I am  a malicious  little  ape.  Quite  true;  that  is  ex- 
actly what  I am.” 

“ That  is  exactly  what  you  will  be  called,  any- 
how,” remarked  Lady  Wardlaw,  while  Lady  Eliza- 
beth drew  back,  with  an  inaudible  deprecatory  mur- 


152 


THE  WIDOWER. 


mur.  “ Come,  Cuckoo,  unless  you  hunger  after  ad- 
ditional compliments  we  won’t  wait  for  the  end  of  the 
programme.” 

Cuckoo  followed  her  displeased  chaperon  toward 
the  door.  She  certainly  did  not  want  any  more  com- 
pliments, nor  was  she  in  the  mood  to  respond  ami- 
ably when  Harry  Carew,  catching  her  up  on  the 
staircase,  repeated  his  unanswered  query. 

“ I told  him  myself,”  she  said;  “ there  was  no 
help  for  it.  Oh,  yes,  thanks,  I knew  you  would  have 
been  happy  to  let  me  remain  in  your  debt,  but  that 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Well,  it  won’t  happen 
again,  for  I have  made  my  last  bet.” 

“ But  that’s  such  an  awful  mistake!  We  should 
have  pulled  it  all  back  in  another  week  or  two,  and 
very  likely  been  several  hundreds  to  the  good.  Did 
he  exact  a solemn  promise  and  vow  from  you?  ” 

“ He  exacted  nothing  at  all.” 

“ Not  even  an  undertaking  that  you  would  have 
no  more  to  say  to  me?  ” asked  Harry  rather  eagerly. 

“ Not  even  that,”  answered  Cuckoo;  “ my  father 
is  not  an  exacting  person.” 

Something  in  Harry’s  face — something  which 
was  almost  always  in  Harry’s  face,  and  which  ap- 
pealed to  the  maternal  instinct  inherent  in  all  women, 
no  matter  what  their  age  may  be,  impelled  her  to 
add:  “And  if  he  had,  I am  not  sure  that  I should 
have  obeyed  him.  My  friends  are  my  friends.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 


budgett’s  discovery. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  when  James  Pennant 
was  summoned  to  accompany  his  daughter  to  the 
dinner  at  which  they  were  due  he  left  the  injured 
and  irate  Budgett  in  his  study.  He  likewise  left  his 
keys  sticking  in  the  lock  of  a drawer  which  contained 
many  documents  of  importance — a careless  thing  to 
do,  no  doubt,  yet  not  an  unnatural  one.  For  who 
can  keep  all  his  wits  about  him  or  restrain  an  over- 
whelming, undignified  impulse  to  run  away  when 
confronted  with  a scolding  woman?  James,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  demeaned  himself  with  proper  dig- 
nity and  self-assertion,  still  he  had  not  been  sorry 
to  quit  the  field  of  battle,  nor,  even  if  he  had  subse- 
quently missed  his  keys,  would  he  have  felt  seriously 
uneasy.  Budgett  was  what  she  was,  but  he  was  quite 
sufficiently  sure  of  her  honesty  to  leave  the  cash  box 
which  he  kept  in  the  top  drawer  of  his  writing  table 
within  her  reach  for  a few  hours. 

The  degree  of  confidence  would  not  have  been 
misplaced.  The  woman,  although  she  was  a very 
long  way  from  being  honest,  was  no  thief,  and  it 
was  not  any  temptation  to  enrich  herself  by  petty 
larceny  that  caused  her  eyes  to  glisten  when  they  fell 

153 


154 


THE  WIDOWER. 


upon  the  half-closed  drawer  of  which  the  contents 
lay  ready  for  her  inspection.  What  were  those  con- 
tents? Letters,  very  likely,  from  political  magnates 
relating  to  public  affairs,  or  memoranda  for  speeches 
— entirely  devoid  of  interest  for  man  or  woman,  save 
for  those  immediately  concerned  therewith.  On  the 
other  hand,  they  might  be — and  it  was  by  no  means 
improbable  that  they  were— bills  run  up  by  the 
extravagant  Cuckoo,  a glimpse  at  which  would 
be  at  least  instructive  and  entertaining.  That 
was  really  all  that  Budgett  had  in  her  mind  when, 
as  a mere  measure  of  precaution,  she  locked  the 
drawer  and  pocketed  the  bunch  of  keys.  Somebody 
— the  butler,  one  of  the  footmen,  or  James’s  valet 
— might  come  into  the  room  at  any  moment,  and 
she  owed  it  to  her  employer  (rude  and  ungrateful 
though  his  conduct  had  been  to  her)  to  protect 
him  against  the  possible  consequences  of  vulgar  curi- 
osity. 

Solitude  is  the  inevitable  penalty  of  greatness, 
and  Budgett  had  seen  fit  to  hold  her  head  so  high 
that  she  was  neither  beloved  nor  very  much  consorted 
with  by  her  fellow-servants.  She  was,  however, 
feared  by  them  on  account  of  its  being  in  her  power 
to  tell  tales,  so  that  when  she  betook  herself  to  the 
housekeeper’s  room  to  make  certain  inquiries,  the 
information  which  she  desired  was  not  withheld 
from  her.  As  previous  remarks  which  had  been 
made  in  her  presence  had  led  her  to  anticipate,  the 
butler  and  the  valet  were  upon  the  point  of  starting 
for  the  theatre,  while  one  of  the  footmen  had  a 
rather  particular  appointment  to  keep  with  a lady 


BUDGETT’S  DISCOVERY. 


155 


which  would  entail  his  absence  from  home  for  a 
couple  of  hours  at  least. 

“Well,  I’m  sure!  what  next!  ” exclaimed  Budg- 
ets with  simulated  indignation.  “ Such  goings-on, 
without  leave  asked  or  given,  would  never  be  put  up 
with  in  any  well-managed  house,  nor  wouldn’t  have 
been,  let  me  tell  you,  in  my  owrn  father’s  establish- 
ment, which  in  the  days  of  our  prosperity  wras  fully 
equal  to  this  one.  I really  don’t  know  but  that  I 
ought  to  speak  about  it.” 

“ Miss  Budgett,”  said  the  butler  gravely,  “ I am 
sure  you  are  too  honourable  a lady  to  do  such  a 
thing  as  that.  Hand , I may  add,  too  kind-’earted.” 

“ Well,  for  this  once,  then,  Mr.  Barker,”  an- 
swered Budgett,  pretending  to  relent,  “ we  will  let 
it  pass.  But  I can’t  think  it  right  for  only  one  man 
to  be  left  to  take  care  of  us  all  while  the  rest  of  you  are 
out  enjoying  yourselves — and  him  three  parts  an 
idiot,  as  one  may  say!  ” 

She  turned  sharply  toward  the  long-legged  youth 
thus  unflatteringly  described  and  added: 

“Now,  Thomas,  if  you  don’t  take  some  coals  to 
the  study  this  minute  we  shall  have  the  fire  going 
out  again,  and  then  Susan  will  have  a word  or  two 
to  say  to  you.  I never  met  with  such  a lazy,  heed- 
less lot — never  in  all  my  life  before!  ” 

Thomas  sulkily  departed  to  do  as  he  was  bid, 
and  immediately  afterward  Budgett  announced  casu- 
ally that  she  was  going  up  to  her  own  room  to  write 
letters.  She  was  now,  she  calculated,  safe  from  in- 
terruption for  a good  hour  to  come,  since  Thomas 

would  certainly  heap  coals  halfway  up  the  chimney 

11 


156 


THE  WIDOWER. 


to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  a second  journey,  and 
it  was  nobody  else’s  business  to  enter  Mr.  Pennant’s 
private  room.  She  really  thought  that  it  was  more 
or  less  her  own  business  to  do  so.  Feminine  pro- 
cesses of  self-justification  are  clean  beyond  the  un- 
derstanding of  mortal  man;  one  can  but  take  note 
of  them,  with  disrespectful  wonder,  and  recognise 
the  practical  impossibility  of  ever  convincing  any 
woman  of  sin. 

It  was  no  desire  to  convince  Miss  Cuckoo  of  sin 
that  caused  the  estimable  Budgett  to  seat  herself  in 
her  master’s  chair  and  unlock  the  top  drawer  of  his 
writing  table.  She  merely  wanted  to  find  out  wdiat 
was  the  matter,  and  the  confidence  reposed  in  her, 
under  somewhat  similar  circumstances,  by  the  late 
Mrs.  Pennant  was  her  reason  for  believing  that  such 
enlightenment  would  be  for  the  advantage  of  all 
parties  concerned.  She  had  mediated — or  flattered 
herself  that  she  had — successfully  before,  and  she 
was  ready,  notwithstanding  recent  unworthy  slights, 
to  mediate  again. 

However,  the  batch  of  documents,  secured  by  an 
elastic  band,  upon  which  her  investigating  fingers 
first  fell  purported  to  be  of  a more  interesting  char- 
acter than  commonplace  accounts  rendered. 

“ Letters  and  papers  relating  to  C.’s  adoption,” 
was  the  superscription  which  they  bore,  and  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  concluding  word  was  not  lost  upon 
her. 

“ Adoption!  ” she  ejaculated.  “ Lord  preserve  us! 
what  does  this  mean?  ” 

A letter,  written  in  her  former  mistress’s  loose, 


BUDGETT’S  DISCOVERY. 


157 


flowing  hand,  and  dated  some  seventeen  years  back 
from  a town  in  the  south  of  France,  lay  before  her  to 
answer  her  question.  It  may  be  given  here  in  extenso 
for  the  information  of  the  reader,  since,  although 
completely  explicit,  it  was  not  very  long: 

“ Dear  James:  Since  you  left  for  England  I have 
quite  made  up  my  mind  about  the  baby.  You  know 
what  I am — I must  have  somebody  or  something  to 
love,  and  this  dear  little  thing  will  help  to  console 
me  for  the  loss  of  much  wdiich  most  people  would  say 
that  a wife  is  entitled  to  expect.  Perhaps  also  she 
will  help,  as  you  pleasantly  put  it  when  we  last  spoke 
upon  the  subject,  to  ‘ keep  me  straight/  I am  not 
reproaching  you,  mind;  I don’t  deny  that  I have 
given  you  cause  for  complaint;  I only  say  that  I am 
like  this,  while  you  are  like  that,  and  that  you  had 
better,  for  both  our  sakes,  humour  what  you  call 
my  whim. 

“ Only  the  child  must  be  my  very  own.  It  would 
not  be  in  the  least  the  same  thing  to  me  to  call 
her  by  her  father’s  name — such  a name,  too! — and 
admit  that  I had  adopted  her  out  of  an  orphanage. 
I could  explain  why,  but  as  you  would  not  under- 
stand, it  would  hardly  be  worth  while.  I have 
spoken  to  the  Sisters  and  they  assure  me  that  nothing 
will  be  more  simple;  they  have  already  had  more 
than  one  case  of  the  same  kind,  and  they  are  pre- 
pared to  furnish  papers  which  will  set  the  whole  mat- 
ter quite  en  regie.  So  please  do  not  raise  difficulties 
where,  by  your  own  showing,  none  exist.  Of  course 
it  would  not  do  for  us  to  pretend  to  have  a son,  but 


158 


THE  WIDOWER. 


no  possible  injury  can  be  done  to  anybody  by  our 
allowing  ourselves  the  luxury  of  a daughter.” 

The  writer  wound  up  by  expressing  a polite  hope 
that  her  husband  was  enjoying  himself  in  London 
and  by  requesting  an  immediate  remittance  to  meet 
unforeseen  various  expenses. 

Although  there  was  nobody  to  hear  her,  Budgett 
could  not  resist  exclaiming,  “ J ust  what  I have  sus- 
pected from  the  very  first!  ” She  had  never  for 
one  moment  suspected  anything  of  the  sort,  and  the 
deceased  lady  who,  as  she  had  believed,  had  told  her 
everything,  had  hoodwinked  her  with  complete  suc- 
cess; but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  next 
piece  of  documentary  evidence  that  came  under  her 
notice  was  the  reply,  despatched  from  London,  to 
the  above: 

“My  dear  Ada:  You  are,  I am  afraid,  right  in 
saying  that  I should  not  understand  any  explanations 
that  you  might  give  of  your  fancy  for  passing  this 
alien  orphan  off  as  our  own  child.  I confess  that 
I see  no  object  in  such  a piece  of  deception,  and 
deception  of  any  kind  is  rather  disagreeable  to  me. 
To  your  adopting  the  baby — since  you  are  so  bent 
upon  it — I have  already  given  my  consent;  and  to 
this,  I take  it,  there  can  be  no  objection,  legal  or 
other.  I will,  however,  go  fully  into  the  matter 
with  the  Sisters  on  my  return.  It  is  true  that  no 
material  injury  would  be  done  to  my  family  or  my 
successors  by  the  course  which  you  propose;  but  it 
occurs  to  me,  among  other  things,  that  the  child 


BUDGETT’S  DISCOVERY. 


159 


herself  might,  at  some  future  time,  have  a right  to 
blame  us  for  having  concealed  the  truth  from  her. 
Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  I must  ask  you  to  rest 
satisfied  for  the  present  with  the  concession  that  I 
have  made.  You  are  so  kind  as  to  say  that  you  do 
not  reproach  me.  Nor  have  I any  desire  to  reproach 
you;  but  you  will  perhaps  acknowledge  that  I am 
justified  in  doubting  whether  your  wishes  of  to-day 
will  correspond  to  your  wishes  of  five,  ten,  or  twenty 
years  hence. 

“ Affectionately  yours, 

James  Penmant.” 

“ Nasty,  cold-hearted,  sneering  fellow!”  was 
Budgett’s  muttered  comment.  “ If  the  poor  lady  was 
no  better  than  she  should  be  in  some  ways  I’m  sure  I, 
for  one,  don’t  wonder  at  it!  ” 

Budgett’s  own  heart  was  probably  a warm  one, 
notwithstanding  her  defective  ethical  philosophy, 
and  she  felt  herself  at  once  in  sympathy  with  James’s 
victims — although,  to  be  sure,  one  of  them  appeared 
to  have  eventually  obtained  all  that  she  had  asked 
of  him.  Consequently,  there  was  still  some  chance 
that  this  discovery  of  a startling  family  secret  would 
remain  unutilized. 

“ I am  not  vindictive,”  mused  the  discoverer; 
“ that  can  not  be  said  of  me.  I could  do  a deal 
of  mischief,  if  I had  a mind  to  it;  but  such  is  not 
my  way,  nor  ever  has  been.  Yet  to  think  that  I 
have  been  trampled  upon  and  ordered  to  hold  my 
tongue  by  a mere  waif  and  stray,  as  one  may  say, 
out  of  a foundling  hospital!  ” 


160 


THE  WIDOWER. 


That  Cuckoo  was  not  exactly  that  an  examina- 
tion of  the  accompanying  papers  would  have  proved 
to  any  one  conversant  with  the  French  language,  but 
as  most  of  these  were  couched  in  legal  phraseology, 
and  as  Budgett’s  years  of  residence  abroad  had  added 
but  little  to  her  knowledge  of  foreign  tongues,  they 
failed  to  convey  to  her  more  than  a vague  idea  of 
the  facts. 

The  facts,  briefly  stated,  were  that  the  orphan 
whom  Mrs.  Pennant,  in  a moment  of  tenderness  or 
caprice,  had  resolved  to  appropriate  was  the  sole 
issue  of  a runaway  marriage.  Cuckoo’s  mother,  her- 
self an  orphan  of  good  birth  but  next  to  no  means, 
had  scandalized  the  society  of  the  province  in  which 
she  dwelt  by  eloping  with  her  music  master.  Per- 
haps the  grudging  hospitality  of  an  uncle  and  aunt, 
together  with  the  very  poor  prospect  that  there  was 
of  any  eligible  husband  being  discovered  for  a dow- 
erless maiden,  may  have  led  her  to  take  a step  which 
involved  prompt  and  final  repudiation  on  the  part 
of  her  relatives.  At  all  events,  off  she  went  with 
her  musical  M.  Poisson,  and  the  Baron  de  Vauvil- 
liers,  with  Madame  la  Baronne,  his  wife,  could  only 
wash  their  aristocratic  hands  of  her.  The  poor 
woman  seems  to  have  had  a hard  time  of  it  during 
her  short  married  life.  Poisson,  whether  he  was  or 
was  not  the  genius  that  she  took  him  for,  failed  to 
make  a fortune  either  by  his  compositions  or  by 
giving  pianoforte  lessons  at  three  franks  an  hour; 
despondency  and  a sharp  razor  removed  him  one 
fine  morning  from  a world  which  has  ever  been 
dilatory  in  recognising  genius,  and  his  widow  soon 


BUDGETT’S  DISCOVERY. 


161 


afterward  fell  into  a condition  of  health  which 
necessitated  unattainable  luxuries.  In  order  to  pro- 
long, if  possible,  a life  rendered  valuable  by  the  cir- 
cumstance of  her  having  become  a mother,  she 
dragged  herself  down  to  the  southern  city  where  she 
died — her  last  moments,  it  may  be  hoped,  being 
soothed  by  the  promise  of  the  good  Sisters  at  the 
neighbouring  orphanage  that  her  helpless  infant 
should  be  provided  for.  That  the  helpless  infant 
was  destined  to  be  provided  for  after  the  magnificent 
fashion  brought  about  by  subsequent  events  was,  of 
course,  more  than  Madame  Poisson  or  the  Sisters 
could  ever,  in  their  most  sanguine  moments,  have 
foreseen,  and  it  is  needless  to  add  that  the  de  Vau- 
villiers  family,  on  application  being  made  to  them, 
willingly  waived  any  claim  they  may  have  possessed 
upon  the  custody  of  a plebeian  offshoot.  The  trans- 
fer, therefore,  upon  which  Mrs.  Pennant  had  set 
her  heart,  was  effected  with  ease  and  despatch. 
Louise-Marie  Poisson  became  Cuckoo  Pennant,  and 
every  needful  formality  was  duly  complied  with. 

All  this  was  to  be  gleaned  from  sundry  clerkly 
folios  which  Budgett  did  her  best  to  decipher,  and  at 
something  like  the  gist  of  which  she  ultimately  ar- 
rived. Her  inclination,  as  has  been  said,  was  to  use 
her  power  leniently — perhaps  not  to  use  it  at  all. 
She  was  fond  of  Cuckoo  if  she  had  no  great  love  for 
Cuckoo’s  supposed  father,  and  she  did  not  wish  to 
ruin  the  poor  girl’s  worldly  prospects.  Moreover,  she 
personally  could  have  nothing  to  gain  by  so  doing.” 

“ Well,  my  dear,”  she  concluded,  addressing 
somebody  who  was  out  of  earshot,  while  she  replaced 


162 


THE  WIDOWER. 


the  papers  in  the  drawer  from  which  she  had  taken 
them  and  left  James’s  hunch  of  keys  in  the  lock, 
“ all  must  depend  upon  yourself.  Ingratitude  I can 
bear  in  silence,  and  have  borne,  but  if  you  begin 
talking  to  me  as  though  I was  the  dirt  beneath  your 
feet — then  perhaps  I may  have  to  let  you  know,  or 
remind  Mr.  Pennant,  that  at  any  rate  I am  not  a 
low-born  workhouse  brat!  ” 

Even  when  one  has  no  expectation  or  intention 
of  shooting  anybody  there  is  sometimes  a comfort- 
able sense  of  security  in  the  knowledge  that  one’s 
pocket  contains  a loaded  revolver,  so  Budgett  quitted 
her  master’s  study  with  restored  self-respect  and  an 
elevated  chin.  That,  in  addition  to  self-respect,  she 
possessed  the  virtue  and  blessing  of  self-control  was 
proved  by  her  bravely  resisting  a rather  strong  temp- 
tation to  return  to  the  housekeeper’s  room. 

“ Not  to-night,”  she  told  herself,  conscious  of 
the  frailty  of  her  moral  nature.  “ While  this  is 
still  fresh  upon  me  I might  be  led  into  saying  some- 
thing as  I should  be  sorry  for  afterward.” 

Sorrow  and  remorse  would,  no  doubt,  have  been 
her  speedy  portion  had  she  betrayed  her  young  mis- 
tress, for  the  latter,  who  came  home  soon  after  mid- 
night, was  discovered  to  be  in  no  fighting  mood. 

“ Budgie,”  she  began  when,  in  response  to  her 
ring,  the  injured  one  appeared,  “ you  must  forgive 
me  for  having  been  nasty  to  you  before  dinner.  I 
don’t  want  to  be  nasty,  only — only  things  do  go  so 
dreadfully  askew  with  me!  ” 

Cuckoo  looked  pale,  tired,  and  despondent;  there 
were  dark  semicircles  under  her  eyes,  and  the  lace- 


BUDGETT’S  DISCOVERY. 


163 


bordered  pocket  handkerchief  which  she  had  thrown 
down  upon  her  dressing  table  seemed  to  have  been 
used  for  a purpose  to  which  it  was  but  nominally 
adapted. 

“ A few  more  evenings  like  this  and  I shall  wish 
that  I had  never  been  born!  ” she  exclaimed. 

The  mollified  Budgett  hastened  to  condole  and  in- 
terrogate. It  would  have  been  easy  and  not  unnatural 
to  hint  oracularly  at  circumstances  connected  with  the 
birth  of  some  of  us  which  might  well  make  that  event 
appear  a subject  for  regret,  but  she  refrained  from 
such  hints,  and  also  from  ungenerous  recriminations. 
All  she  asked  for  was  a categorical  confession. 

“ What  ever  have  you  been  doing,  my  poor  dear? 
You  don’t  mean  to  say  that  you  have  gone  and  played 
wrong  notes  before  all  those  people!  ” 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ Oh,  no;  I played 
the  right  notes,  and  I have  been  quite  successful — 
only  too  successful!  But,  unluckily,  the  people  with 
whom  I succeed  are  the  wrong  people.” 

She  was  not  much  more  explicit  than  that,  al- 
though she  did,  on  being  pressed,  admit  that  she  had 
vexed  her  father  by  exceeding  her  allowance.  She 
was  badly  in  want  of  a confidential  comforter,  and 
old  association  had  softened  her  heart  toward  the 
friend  in  need  of  childish  days,  but  it  would  have 
been  quite  impossible — even  if  she  had  faithfully  re- 
counted all  the  evening’s  incidents — to  make  Budg- 
ett understand  why  she  had  been  crying  or  why  she 
felt  so  profoundly  mortified,  humiliated,  disgusted 
with  herself.  Unpaid  bills,  therefore,  and  the  conse- 
quent displeasure  of  the  head  of  the  family,  who  had 


164 


THE  WIDOWER. 


been  informed  that  he  would  have  to  pay  them,  were 
made  to  do  duty  as  the  source  of  her  trouble,  and 
Budgett  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  such  small 
annoyances  were  no  more  than  every  father  and 
husband  ought  to  expect. 

“ But  he  doesn't  expect  to  be  deceived,"  observed 
Cuckoo.  “ It  was  because  I said  nothing  to  him 
until  I was  obliged,  not  because  I had  thrown  away 
so  much  money  that  he  was  angry." 

“ And  if  you  said  nothing  to  him,  wasn’t  it  only 
to  spare  his  feelings?"  cried  Budgett.  “Men  never 
think  of  that,  nor  yet  they  can’t  see  the  difference 
between  dresses  and  coats.  What  do  they  know 
about  clothes,  with  their  tailor’s  bills  never  varying 
by  so  much  as  a ten-pound  note  from  one  year  to 
another! " 

Budgett,  who  had  fought  Mrs.  Pennant’s  battles 
of  yore — or  persuaded  herself  that  she  had — was 
quite  exhilarated  at  the  prospect  of  rendering  a 
similar  service  to  Mrs.  Pennant’s  successor. 

“ Don’t  let  this  worry  you,  my  dear,"  said  she  in 
answer  to  some  further  despondent  utterances;  “just 
you  leave  him  to  me!  I’ll  undertake  to  bring  him 
to  reason  in  no  time!" 

Cuckoo  had  a melancholy  little  laugh  at  a vaunt 
so  palpably  idle;  but  then,  to  be  sure,  she  did  not 
know  what  magnificent  cards  Budgett  held. 

“ Oh,  you  may  laugh,"  was  the  latter’s  self-con- 
fident retort,  “but  you  will  see!  I am  not  one  to 
promise  more  than  I can  perform,  and  I have  yet 
to  meet  the  man  who  can  put  me  to  silence  when  my 
mind  is  made  up." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 

If  the  bold  Budgett  did  not  straightway  proceed 
to  prove  herself  as  good  as  her  word,  she  was  actuated, 
it  may  be  assumed,  by  much  the-  same  motives  as 
sometimes  deter  prudent  generals  from  attacking  a 
quiescent  enemy.  Since  Mr.  Pennant  was  willing 
to  pay  up,  what  use  would  there  be  in  wasting  pow- 
der and  shot  upon  him?  A day  might  come,  and 
probably  would  come,  when  reserve  stores  of  ammu- 
nition would  be  called  for;  meanwhile,  it  seemed  best 
to  maintain  an  attitude  of  observation  and  a lofty 
resolve  to  “ put  up  with  no  nonsense.” 

Moreover,  the  most  intrepid  man  or  woman  may 
well  hesitate  to  set  the  house  on  fire.  One  does  not, 
under  such  circumstances,  know  quite  for  certain 
what  will  happen  next,  and  one  has  a natural  regard 
for  the  integrity  of  one’s  own  person.  Of  course, 
if  Mr.  Pennant  could  be  counted  upon  to  behave 
like  a reasonable  being — if,  perceiving  that  he  was 
at  his  adversary’s  mercy,  he  were  at  once  to  say: 
“ My  good  woman,  name  your  own  price  ” — that 
would  be  entirely  satisfactory.  But  he  was  not  at  all 
less  likely  to  respond,  with  frigid  malignity,  “ Do 
your  worst!  You  have  discovered  a secret  by  means 

165 


1G6 


THE  WIDOWER. 


which  compel  me  to  discharge  you  without  a char- 
acter; you  will  not  do  yourself  much  good  by  divulg- 
ing it,  though  you  will,  no  doubt,  cause  me  some 
pain  and  annoyance.” 

These  considerations  gave  Budgett  pause,  and  as 
it  did  not  occur  to  James,  when  he  found  his  keys 
where  he  had  left  them,  that  anybody  could  have 
been  investigating  his  private  papers,  the  outward 
tranquillity  of  the  establishment  remained  undis- 
turbed. Inwardly,  it  is  true,  the  master  of  the  es- 
tablishment was  very  far  from  being  at  ease.  Those 
same  papers,  to  which  he  had  instinctively  turned 
in  the  first  moment  of  his  distress,  represented  to 
him  the  history  of  what  he  had  always  felt,  and  had 
sometimes — long  ago — declared  to  be  a great  mis- 
take. It  is  permitted  to  anybody  to  adopt  an  or- 
phan; it  is  scarcely  permissible  to  introduce  that 
orphan  to  your  friends,  and  perhaps  marry  her  to 
one  of  them  under  a name  which  she  has  no  right 
to  bear.  But  he  had  yielded,  against  his  better 
judgment,  to  the  entreaties  of  his  sick,  wayward 
wife,  and  after  her  death — well,  after  her  death  he 
had  felt  that  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  the  disloyalty 
which  she  so  evidently  apprehended.  “ James,”  she 
had  murmured,  almost  with  her  last  breath,  “ the 
child!  ” And  he  had  answered — too  hastily,  it  might 
be — -with  a promise  which  was  absolutely  binding 
upon  him. 

Nothing  was  further  from  his  mind  than  an  idea 
of  breaking  that  promise  now.  Cuckoo  had  become 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  his  own  child,  and  it  was 
not  in  order  to  seek  consolation  for  her  having  dis- 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 


167 


appointed  him  that  he  turned  to  written  proof  of 
her  having  no  drop  of  his  blood  in  her  veins.  Some 
vague  expectation  of  chancing  upon  an  allusion  to 
hereditary  tendencies  was  more  probably  his  incen- 
tive; but  the  letters  at  which  he  had  not  glanced 
for  so  many  years  contained  nothing  of  that  sort, 
nor  indeed  was  any  such  explanation  of  a very  or- 
dinary phenomenon  required.  Cuckoo  might  quite 
conceivably  have  been  his  (and  his  late  wife's)  daugh- 
ter, yet  have  preferred  falsehood  to  truth;  that  she 
was  somebody's  daughter  instead  of  being  somebody's 
son  sufficed,  after  all,  to  account  for  everything. 

Cuckoo  fully  expected  to  be  rebuked  for  the  dis- 
play of  bad  taste  in  which  she  had  seen  fit  to  indulge 
at  the  concert,  but  of  this  humiliation,  or  satisfac- 
tion, she  was  disappointed.  J ames,  when  they 
next  met,  did  not  refer  to  the  subject,  nor  had  he 
anything  further  to  say  with  regard  to  other  sub- 
jects which  had  brought  about  a coolness  between 
them.  Distantly  courteous,  much  preoccupied,  and 
seldom  at  leisure  (for  the  Opposition  of  which  he 
was  a formidable  member  had  just  then  determined 
to  make  the  lives  of  ministers  a burden  to  them), 
he  had  evidently  matters  of  more  importance  to  think 
about  than  the  vagaries  of  an  ill-behaved  girl,  and 
if  he  was  not  wholly  indifferent  as  to  what  she  did 
or  what  became  of  her  he  had  every  appearance  of 
being  so.  Perhaps  no  other  fashion  of  evincing 
displeasure  was  possible  to  one  of  his  temperament, 
but  that,  unhappily,  did  not  prevent  it  from  being 
the  very  worst  that  he  could  have  adopted.  Men, 
when  they  have  been  in  the  wrong,  do  not,  as  a 


168 


THE  WIDOWER. 


rule,  object  to  being  ignored  by  those  who  hold  au- 
thority over  them,  but  to  women  such  treatment  is 
always  intolerable,  and  often  provocative  of  disastrous 
measures  of  retaliation. 

One  evening  after  dinner  Cuckoo  dutifully  re- 
quested permission  to  accompany  the  Carews  to 
Hurst  Park  on  the  following  day.  “ I should  like 
to  go,  if  you  don’t  object,”  she  said. 

“ Provided  that  Mrs.  Carew  is  to  be  of  the  party 
I have  no  objection,”  was  the  reply  that  she  re- 
ceived after  a momentary  pause. 

“ It  was  she  who  invited  me,  and — and  I shall 
not  back  anything,”  Cuckoo  returned. 

“ Oh,  no,  you  will  not  bet;  at  any  rate  Mr.  Carew 
will  not  put  any  money  on  for  you,”  observed  James 
tranquilly.  “ Upon  that  point  he  and  I understand 
one  another,  I believe.” 

He  did  not,  she  noticed,  request  her  to  bind  her- 
self by  any  self-denying  ordinance.  The  presump- 
tion was  that  he  looked  upon  her  word  as  a worthless 
security;  he  had  not  even  suggested  that,  for  her 
own  sake,  she  would  do  wisely  to  have  no  further 
dealings  with  bookmakers.  Any  measures  that  might 
be  deemed  advisable  for  her  protection  were  to  be 
taken  without  her  knowledge  or  assent,  it  seemed. 
Did  he  really  imagine,  then,  that  if  she  wanted  to  risk 
money  upon  the  result  of  a race,  prohibitions  laid 
upon  Harry  Carew  would  restrain  her  from  so 
doing? 

“ I don’t  know  what  understanding  you  may  have 
with  Mr.  Carew,”  she  remarked  presently.  “ What  I 
meant  was  that  I have  given  up  betting.  I shall 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 


169 


never  win  or  lose  another  shilling  on  a race- 
course.” 

This  announcement  was  acknowledged  by  a silent 
inclination  of  the  head  and  a slight  smile  which 
brought  the  colour  into  her  cheeks.  She  was  vexed 
with  herself  for  having  made  it,  and  something  more 
than  vexed  with  the  implacable,  indifferent  father 
who  would  grant  her  no  place  for  repentance. 
“ C’est  a ne  plus  y tenir!”  she  inwardly  exclaimed, 
making  use  of  the  tongue  which  came  rather  more 
naturally  to  her  than  English.  Reproaches  and  re- 
strictions she  could  have  cheerfully  endured,  con- 
scious of  having  deserved  them,  but  contemptuous 
toleration  caused  her  to  lay  her  ears  back  and  show 
the  whites  of  her  eyes.  “ Que  voulez-vous?  ” she  said 
to  herself;  “ je  suis  comme  ga  moi.  Du  moment  que 
Von  ne  m’aime  pas , je  risque  de  devenir  mechante ! ” 

Community  of  sentiment  should  have  enabled 
Cuckoo  to  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Carew,  wdiom  she 
found  waiting  for  her  in  Chesham  Place  and  in  a 
deeply  aggrieved  mood  the  next  day,  but  really  it  was 
not  very  easy  to  pity  that  injured  woman  when  she 
complained  that  Harry  was  no  longer  in  love  with 
her.  In  all  conscience,  what  could  she  expect?  If 
she  had  bewailed  his  extravagance,  his  selfishness, 
his  disregard  of  all  conventional  proprieties,  she 
would  have  been  well  within  her  right,  but  was  it 
not  a little  bit  absurd  to  accuse  him,  at  that  time  of 
day,  of  having  ceased  to  care  for  one  whose  wrongs 
were  a secret  to  nobody?  However,  it  pleased  Mrs. 
Carew  to  talk,  on  that  occasion,  as  though  a hitherto 
affectionate  husband  had  just  begun  to  neglect  her, 


170 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  as  though  such  conduct  on  his  part  were  as  un- 
accountable as  it  was  mortifying.  Self-deception  of 
that  kind — if  indeed  the  poor  woman  did  contrive 
to  deceive  herself — was  harmless  enough,  and  great 
allowances  were  to  be  made  for  her;  only  one  is  not 
always,  unfortunately,  in  the  frame  of  mind  to  make 
allowances  for  idiots.  Cuckoo,  therefore,  on  the  way 
down  to  Hurst  Park  (whither  the  delinquent  had 
fled  in  advance)  listened  with  suppressed  impatience 
to  the  jeremiads  of  her  companion,  saying  to  herself 
that,  after  all,  two  versions  may  be  given  of  every 
quarrel. 

A quarrel  of  a somewhat  serious  nature  had,  it 
appeared,  taken  place  that  morning  between  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Carew,  and  the  version  of  it  put  forward 
by  the  latter  scarcely  bore  the  impress  of  strict  verac- 
ity. Originating  in  a pecuniary  dispute,  it  had,  ac- 
cording to  her,  resulted  in  a heartless  and  shameless 
acknowledgment  on  Harry’s  part  that  he  was  over 
head  and  ears  in  love  with  somebody  whose  name 
did  not  transpire,  and  that  he  wished  to  Heaven  he 
had  never  been  so  insane  as  to  tie  himself  for  life 
to  a shrew.  “His  own  words,  I assure  you!”  the 
lachrymose  Julia  asseverated.  “Don’t  you  think 
that,  after  all  the  sacrifices  I have  made  for  his  sake, 
it  is  too  monstrous  of  him  to  say  such  things?  ” 

Perhaps,  but  it  was  so  very  unlike  that  easy- 
going, peace-loving  man  to  have  said  such  things 
that  Cuckoo  felt  justified  in  provisionally  withhold- 
ing condemnation. 

Harry’s  account  of  the  affair  was  imparted  to  her 
shortly  after  the  two  ladies  had  reached  their  des- 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 


171 


tination  and  had  been  conducted  by  him  to  the  seats 
reserved  for  them.  He  wore,  in  obedience  to  the 
decrees  of  a fugitive  fashion,  a pair  of  white  ducks 
and  a straw  hat  tilted  on  to  the  back  of  his  head, 
which  costume,  combined  with  his  abashed  air,  gave 
him  even  more  than  usual  the  appearance  of  a 
naughty  schoolboy.  So  anxious,  to  all  outward 
seeming,  was  he  to  re-establish  amicable  relations 
with  his  incensed  wife  that  he  sat  down  meekly  be- 
side her,  offering  her  his  field  glasses,  and  made  no 
response  to  Cuckoo’s  suggestion  that  they  should  de- 
scend into  the  paddock  until  he  had  mutely  re- 
quested permission  to  absent  himself.  This,  how- 
ever, having  been  accorded  by  Mrs.  Carew,  who  had 
some  acquaintances  near  her,  and  who,  for  her  part, 
disliked  venturing  within  the  range  of  the  heels  of 
thoroughbreds,  he  breathed  more  freely  and  recov- 
ered something  of  his  accustomed  jauntiness. 

“ Oh,  yes,  a deuce  of  a row!  ” said  he  in  answer 
to  the  inquiry  which  Cuckoo  addressed  to  him — 
“ worst  row  we  have  had  for  I don’t  know  how  long! 
I don’t  mind  owning  that  I lost  my  temper;  somehow 
or  other  I let  slip  things  which  I oughtn’t  to  have 
told  her,  and  she  riled  me  by  the  way  she  took  them. 
So  then  I lost  my  head  as  well  as  my  temper  and  the 
fat  was  in  the  fire  before  one  knew  where  one  was! 
Did  she — er — tell  you  what  I said?” 

“ She  told  me  that  you  had  called  her  a shrew, 
and  that  you  had  confessed  to  being  in  love  with 
somebody  else.  If  that  is  true,  you  can’t  wonder  at 
her  being  angry.” 

Harry  looked  relieved.  “ Did  I really  call  her 

12 


172 


THE  WIDOWER. 


a shrew?  ” he  asked,  grinning  unrepentantly.  “ That 
was  atrocious  of  me,  and  I won’t  fail  to  apologize. 
As  for  my  being  in  love — come,  now,  does  a man 
of  my  age  fall  in  love?  And  if  he  did,  is  it  within 
the  bounds  of  possibility  that  any  woman  could  fall 
in  love  with  him?  Nobody  but  Julia  would  dream 
of  taking  a statement  like  that  seriously.” 

“ I think  you  ought  to  beg  her  pardon,  any- 
how,” said  Cuckoo. 

“ All  right,  but  I doubt  whether  you  would  think 
so  if  you  had  heard  the  accusations  and  the  epithets 
that  she  Hung  at  me.  For  good,  solid,  coarse  vitupera- 
tion an  earnest  Christian  woman  in  a rage  has  no 
equal.  And  it  wasn’t  as  if  I had  really  done  anything 
to  deserve  such  language  either.  Well,  well,  let’s  try 
to  forget  it.  These  disturbances  will  occur  from 
time  to  time  in  the  best-regulated  families,  and  ours 
has  never  set  up  to  belong  to  that  high  class.  How 
about  the  little  disturbance  upon  your  own  domestic 
hearth?  Quieting  down  by  this  time?” 

“ It  was  not  noisy  at  any  time,”  replied  Cuckoo 
with  a slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  “ I suppose  it 
may  be  said  to  have  subsided,  since  I am  allowed  to 
be  here — and  in  your  company.” 

“ Between  you  and  me,  I didn’t  very  much  expect 
that  you  would  be  allowed  to  profit  by  my  improving 
company  any  more.  Your  governor  wrote  me  a 
rather  stiff  letter.  You  shall  profit,  though,  if  you 
like,  and  if  you’ll  promise  to  say  nothing  to  him 
about  it,  for  I can  put  you  on  to  a real  good  thing 
for  the  City  and  Suburban.” 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ No,  thank  you;  I 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 


173 


have  done  with  good  things — and  bad  ones,  too.  I 
am  not  much  to  be  depended  upon,  as  my  father 
would  tell  you,  but  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  I 
shall  never  make  another  bet.” 

“ Because  he  forbids  it?  ” 

“No,  because  I forbade  myself.  He  thought,  I , 
believe,  that  it  would  be  a waste  of  breath  to  issue 
any  more  orders  to  the  disobedient  and  deceitful.” 

“ Oh,  well,  if  it’s  only  a question  of  keeping  your 
own  resolutions,  let  me  advise  you  to  break  them  for 
this  once.  It  isn’t  every  day,  nor  every  year  either, 
that  one  gets  such  a tip  as  I have  at  your  service 
now.” 

Cuckoo  raised  her  eyebrows.  Apparently  her 
father’s  understanding  with  Harry  Carew  was  less 
complete  and  decisive  than  he  supposed. 

“ That  c stiff  letter,’  as  you  call  it,  hasn’t  choked 
you  off,  then?”  she  asked. 

Harry  laughed.  Perhaps  he  was  going  to  reply — 
as  he  might  truthfully  have  done — that  he  was  not 
the  man  to  be  choked  off  by  threats,  but  at  that 
moment  Cuckoo’s  attention  was  drawn  away  from 
him  by  a couple  who,  strolling  across  the  inclosure, 
caught  sight  of  her  and  paused  to  accost  her.  Fitz- 
roy,  while  shaking  hands  with  his  cousin,  cast  an 
interrogative  and  disapproving  glance  at  her  straw- 
hatted  companion;  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell,  beauti- 
fully dressed  and  charmingly  pretty,  was  eager  to 
be  informed  what  was  going  to  win  the  next  race. 

“ I am  sure  you  know  all  about  it,  and  Mr.  Pen- 
nant has  been  taking  advantage  of  my  ignorance 
to  lay  me  ten  to  one  in  gloves  against  the  favour- 


174 


THE  WIDOWER. 


ite,”  she  said,  in  explanation  of  her  anxiety.  “ Has 
he  swindled  me?  ” 

“ It  doesn’t  look  like  it,  considering  that  the  start- 
ing price  appears  to  be  two  to  one  on,”  answered 
Cuckoo  dryly;  “ but  I know  no  more  than  you  what 
will  win.  You  had  better  consult  Mr.  Carew,  who 
probably  does  know.” 

Lady  Elizabeth  managed,  without  opening  her 
lips,  to  convey  to  her  adviser  the  impression  that  she 
would  rather  not  consult  the  gentleman  in  question, 
or  even  speak  to  him.  She  made  some  remark  about 
the  fine  weather  and  the  number  of  people  whom  it 
had  brought  down  from  London,  adding  innocently: 
“ I suppose  you  are  with  Lady  Wardlaw,  aren’t 
you?  ” 

“ I am,  as  you  see,  with  Mr.  Carew,”  answered 
Cuckoo  in  a loud,  distinct  voice. 

She  meant  Fitzroy  to  hear  her,  and  was  glad  to 
notice  by  the  cloud  which  at  once  overshadowed 
the  young  man’s  brow  that  he  had  heard  her.  Pres- 
ently he  drew  nearer — Lady  Elizabeth  having  turned 
away  for  a moment  to  greet  one  of  her  numerous 
friends — and  murmured  with  visible  annoyance: 
“ You  surely  don’t  mean  what  you  say!  ” 

“ That  I am  here  with  Mr.  Carew?  But  why 
shouldn’t  I mean  what  is  obvious  to  all  who  have 
not  been  deprived  of  the  blessing  of  sight?  Oh,  yes, 
I am  here  with  Mr.  Carew — and  you  are  here  with 
Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell.” 

“ That,”  Fitzroy  returned,  “ is  a totally  different 
thing.  Lord  Rochdale  is  somewhere  about,  and  Lady 
Rochdale  is  in  the  stand.” 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES. 


175 


“Really?  Well,  so  is  Mrs.  Carew.” 

“ Oh,  Mrs.  Carew!  ” — Fitzroy  appeared  to  hesi- 
tate for  an  instant,  but  made  up  his  mind  to  resume: 
“ I wish  you  would  come  and  join  our  party  .” 

“ Many  thanks,  only  I am  not  convinced  that  I 
should  receive  an  enthusiastic  welcome.  You  wrill 
have  to  abandon  me,  I am  afraid,  to  the  low  society 
which  I find  so  congenial.  For  the  rest,  I am  au- 
thorized. My  father  knows  where  I am  and  who 
is  taking  charge  of  me.” 

“ I doubt  very  much,”  returned  the  young  man 
frowning,  “ whether  he  knows  what  is  apt  to  be  said 
about  ladies  of  whom  Carew  takes  charge.  You 
won’t  be  guided  by  me,  of  course,  but ” 

He  was  prevented  from  finishing  his  sentence  by 
a sudden  movement  on  the  part  of  the  throng  which 
forced  him  to  move  forward  a few  paces.  The  horses 
were  filing  out  of  the  paddock,  and  Harry  Carew, 
catching  Cuckoo  unceremoniously  by  the  elbow,  said: 
“ Come  along!  We  shall  have  to  make  a bolt  for  it 
if  we  want  to  see  the  race.” 

So  they  made  a bolt  for  it,  and  they  saw  the  race, 
which  was  won  with  very  great  ease  by  the  favourite; 
but  of  Lady  Elizabeth  and  the  gentleman  who  had 
obliged  her  with  such  preposterous  odds  they  saw 
no  more. 

“ Do  you  happen  to  know,”  Harry  Carew  in- 
quired of  Cuckoo  later  in  the  afternoon,  “ what  your 
young  cousin’s  fighting  weight  is?” 

Cuckoo  had  no  idea.  “ Do  you  contemplate  fight- 
ing him?  ” she  asked. 

“Ho;  I am  not  at  all  sure  that  I should  care  to 


176 


THE  WIDOWER. 


tackle  him  with  or  without  the  gloves  nowadays. 
But  he  looked  rather  as  if  he  would  like  to  fight  me. 
What  is  the  matter  with  him? — not  jealousy,  one 
presumes.” 

“ Certainly  not  in  the  sense  that  you  mean.  But 
he  is  jealous  for  the  credit  of  the  family,  perhaps,  and 
a little  afraid  of  my  disgracing  it.” 

“ Which  accounts  for  his  scowling  at  me,  eh?  At 
that  rate  he  is  as  unjust  as  Julia,  and  considera- 
bly less  flattering.  What  is  to  he  done?  All  I can 
say  is  that  I am  ready  to  submit  without  a mur- 
mur to  your  orders — though  not  to  his  or  to  my 
wife’s.” 

Who  but  Harry  Carew  would  have  thus  artlessly 
let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag?  Even  when  he  perceived 
— as  he  instantly  did — that  he  had  betrayed  himself, 
he  was  more  amused  than  disconcerted. 

“ Oh,  yes,”  he  made  haste  to  add,  “ the  row  was 
about  you.  I only  wonder  that  you  didn’t  guess 
it;  and  I wonder  still  more  at  Julia’s  having  allowed 
us  to  be  chums  for  so  long  without  opening  fire  upon 
us.  But  you  seem  to  have  pacified  her  by  some 
means  or  other.” 

“ I suppose,”  answered  Cuckoo,  who  had  red- 
dened slightly,  “that  she  became  pacified  when  she 
saw  for  herself  what  an  insane  notion  she  had  taken 
into  her  head.  You  never  pretend  to  be  younger 
than  you  are,  so  you  won’t  mind  my  saying  that  I 
entirely  agree  with  you  as  to  the  impossibility  of  a 
man  of  your  age  falling  in  love  with  a girl.” 

“ And  the  far  more  glaring  impossibility  of  a girl 
of  your  age  falling  in  love  with  a man  of  mine. 


PERILOUS  SYMPATHIES.  177 

Oh,  I have  no  illusions,  I assure  you,”  Harry  declared, 
with  an  audible  sigh. 

He  had  no  sort  of  business  to  sigh  audibly,  but 
really  he  felt  that  it  would  have  been  almost  a breach 
of  common  politeness  to  abstain  from  paying  that 
conventional  tribute  to  the  fascinations  of  the  unat- 
tainable. It  was  at  once  agreed  that  a grotesque 
suspicion  required  neither  notice  nor  confutation; 
and  although  Cuckoo,  in  spite  of  what  she  said,  re- 
mained a trifle  embarrassed,  her  companion  was  not 
in  the  least  so. 

“ Julia’s  gift  for  goading  me  into  indiscretions  of 
word  and  deed  amounts  to  genius,”  he  presently  re- 
marked. “ I am  a patient,  peaceable,  resigned  sort 
of  mortal;  yet  every  now  and  then  I ask  myself 
whether  anything  wouldn’t  be  better  than  the  kind  of 
life  that  I am  fated  to  lead.  Do  you  ever  feel  like 
that?  ” 

Cuckoo  nodded.  At  the  moment  when  the 
question  wras  put  to  her  she  happened  to  be  feeling 
very  much  like  that.  Deservedly  despised  by  her 
father,  blamed  (without  having  deserved  it  at  all)  by 
certain  persons  who  might  have  known  her  better 
than  they  appeared  to  do,  she  had  the  sensation  of 
being  what,  if  the  whole  truth  had  been  revealed  to 
her,  she  would  undoubtedly  have  pronounced  her- 
self— a species  of  outcast.  The  man  who  was 
leaning  over  the  rails  at  her  elbow  resembled  her  in 
some  respects,  she  fancied. 

“ I think  w’e  often  feel  alike,  you  and  I,”  she  said. 
“ Perhaps  that  is  because  we  aren’t  either  of  us  good 
for  much.” 


178 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Harry  Carew  was  good  for  nothing,  or  he  never 
would  have  answered  her  as  he  did.  But  perhaps  the 
habits  of  a lifetime  are  more  than  any  of  us  can  with- 
stand at  a given  moment;  perhaps,  too,  he  did  not 
realize  the  depth  of  his  possible  iniquity.  In  any 
case,  while  owning  that  his  wife’s  instincts  had  not  led 
her  astray,  he  professed  to  he  fully  aware  that  he  was 
a middle-aged  fool. 

“ I only  tell  you  the  fact,  which  is  as  absurd  as 
it  is  real,  in  order  that  you  may  know  how  absolutely 
and  always  I shall  be  at  your  command,”  was  his 
somewhat  inadequate  excuse.  “ Don’t  answer,  but 
don’t  forget.” 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer,  nor  was  she  destined  to 
forget.  If  she  was  vexed  and  ashamed,  it  must  be 
acknowledged  that  she  was  also  a little  pleased.  After 
all,  there  was  somebody  in  the  world  who,  knowing 
pretty  well  what  her  failings  were,  loved  her  and 
asked  for  nothing  in  return! 


CHAPTER  XIY. 


WARNING. 

To  receive  a declaration  of  love  from  a married 
man  of  mature  years  who  does  not  accompany  his 
confession  with  any  extravagant  proposals  is  to  re- 
ceive no  great  compliment.  Married  men  of  mature 
years  may — it  is  to  be  feared  that  they  sometimes  do 
— lose  their  heads  to  the  extent  of  offering  to  desert 
their  wives,  and  the  recipients  of  their  ardent  vows 
may  find  it  possible  to  pardon,  while  condemning, 
them;  but  what  is  altogether  inexcusable  on  their  part 
is  to  proclaim  themselves  enamoured  of  a lady  for 
whose  sake  they  do  not  intend  to  sacrifice  either 
fortune  or  social  position.  Such  announcements, 
the  lady  may  very  reasonably  assume,  are  incompatible 
with  the  respect  which  is  her  due. 

Cuckoo,  however,  did  not  take  that  view  of  Harry 
Carew’s  indiscretion.  Within  the  limits  imposed 
upon  her  by  ignorance  of  the  world  and  its  ways,  she 
understood  the  man;  she  was  quite  sure  that  he 
had  spoken  as  he  had  done  simply  because  he  could 
not  help  himself,  and  almost  sure  that  he  had  spoken 
nothing  but  the  truth.  Impulsive  and  affectionate 
by  temperament,  estranged  from  his  wife  through 
faults  on  both  sides,  of  which  his  own  were  perhaps 

179 


180 


THE  WIDOWER. 


not  the  more  cogent,  it  was  but  natural  that  he  should 
seek  elsewhere  what  was  denied  to  him  at  home,  and 
that  he  did  not,  in  this  instance,  seek  for  anything 
so  obviously  beyond  his  reach  as  reciprocity  was  surely 
a point  in  his  favour.  The  case,  therefore,  was  not 
one  for  virtuous  indignation.  His  secret,  which  in 
all  probability  would  never  be  referred  to  again,  was 
safe  with  her,  and  she  saw  no  reason  why  she  should 
cease  to  be  his  friend.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
grateful  to  him — grateful,  as  the  forlorn  and  despised 
must  always  needs  be  to  a solitary  fellow-creature  who 
loves  them.  It  will  be  observed  that  Cuckoo  had 
learned  and  unlearned  much  since  the  days  of  her 
childish  boast  to  Fitzroy  that  she  could  make  any- 
body and  everybody  love  her. 

But  she  had  not,  unfortunately,  learned  to  dis- 
pense in  a philosophic  spirit  with  the  universal  affec- 
tion which  her  nature  craved,  and  that  may  have 
been  one  reason  for  her  inability  to  look  pleased  when 
Gwen  and  Ella  Pennant  informed  her  that  they  were 
expecting  every  day  to  hear  of  their  brother’s  engage- 
ment to  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell.  It  was  after  a 
luncheon  with  her  cousins  that  this  piece  of  news  was 
communicated  to  her,  and  she  responded  by  mutely 
shrugging  her  shoulders  and  wrinkling  up  her  nose. 

Deprecatory  ejaculations  were  at  once  raised. 
Wasn’t  she  glad? — didn’t  she  think  it  would  be  a 
* good  thing?  Lady  Elizabeth  was  such  a dear! — so 
clever,  so  pretty,  so  nice  in  every  way!  The  kindly, 
homely  Pennant  girls,  conscious  that  they  themselves 
were  devoid  of  those  charms  which  are  commonly 
supposed  to  appeal  to  the  other  sex,  were  devoid  also 


WARNING. 


181 


of  envy  and  jealousy,  and  were  quite  ready  to  fall 
down  and  worship  at  the  feet  of  their  prospective 
sister-in-law.  Surely  Cuckoo  had  not  been  set 
against  Lady  Elizabeth  by  Uncle  James’s  persistent 
, attacks  upon  poor  Lord  Rochdale’s  policy!  It  was 
no  fault  of  hers  that  her  father  happened  to  he  a 
Liberal. 

“ Well,  at  all  events,  it  will  prevent  one  from 
seeing  much  of  them,  I suppose,”  said  Cuckoo,  “ and 
I can’t  help  being  sorry  for  that.  Because  I have 
always  liked  Fitzroy,  and — and  I am  afraid  I don’t 
see  much  to  like  in  that  conceited,  insipid  girl.  I 
should  have  thought  he  might  have  done  a little  better 
for  himself.” 

Gwen  and  Ella  were  of  a different  opinion.  They 
frankly  confessed  that  they  had  at  one  time  hoped 
he  might  do  better — that  is,  that  he  might  marry 
somebody  to  whom  they  were  even  more  attached 
than  they  were  to  Lady  Elizabeth.  “ But  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  neither  you  nor  he  would  ever  feel  any 
inclination  that  way,  so  there  was  no  use  in  thinking 
any  more  about  it.  And  really  she  isn’t  a bit  con- 
ceited. You  wouldn’t  say  so  if  you  knew  her  better.” 

“ Oh,  I dare  say  she  is  all  right,  and  I dare  say  I 
shall  like  her  when  I know  her  better — if  I ever  do,” 
answered  Cuckoo,  not  over  graciously. 

She  went  away,  a little  ashamed  of  her  rudeness, 
and  told  herself  that  she  did  not  really  care  whether 
Fitzroy  married  this  or  that  fashionable  young 
woman.  She  had  foreseen  from  the  outset  that  he 
would  end  by  marrying  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell,  and 
she  was  only  annoyed  at  his  having  omitted  to  take 


182 


THE  WIDOWER. 


her  into  his  confidence.  As  his  cousin  and  the  friend 
of  his  childhood,  she  was  entitled  to  feel  sore  at  his 
having  left  it  to  his  sisters  to  tell  her  what  she  might 
have  expected  to  hear  from  his  own  lips.  At  any 
rate,  she  mentally  accounted  after  that  fashion  for  her 
nerves  being  on  edge  and  her  temper  liable  to  get  out 
of  hand  upon  slight  provocation. 

Slight  provocation  was  given  to  her  shortly  after 
her  return  home  by  one  whose  manner  had  of  late 
become  even  more  familiar  and  overbearing  than  of 
yore.  Budgett,  as  she  had  proved,  was  ready  to  for- 
give certain  injuries,  but  it  was  clean  beyond  her 
power  to  forget  that  her  nominal  mistress,  the  so- 
called  Miss  Pennant,  was  in  reality  nobody  at  all,  and 
consciousness  of  this  had  caused  her,  ever  since  her 
momentous  discovery,  to  assert  herself  more  than  was 
prudent  or  becoming.  She  asserted  herself  now  by 
bouncing  into  Cuckoo’s  presence  with  an  angry  re- 
monstrance about  the  condition  of  the  gown  which 
the  latter  had  just  discarded. 

“ If  you  must  walk  through  the  muddy  streets  just 
after  a shower  of  rain,  you  might  take  the  trouble  to 
stand  on  one  side  when  a cab  or  an  omnibus  passes 
you!  I never  knew  such  a careless,  extravagant  girl! 
That  new  frock  of  yours  is  a ruin — splashed  all  over 
with  stains  which  nothing  will  ever  bring  out!  ” 

“ It  doesn’t  matter,”  said  Cuckoo  shortly. 

“ Doesn’t  it,  indeed!  Well,  not  to  you,  perhaps, 
but  it  matters  a good  deal  to  them  as  are  ex- 
pected to  brush  and  clean  your  clothes,  let  me  tell 
you — not  to  mention  them  as  has  to  pay  for  them.  I 
really  should  have  thought  that,  after  just  having 


WARNING. 


183 


had  all  your  bills  paid  for  you — and  paid  without  a 
murmur,  as  one  would  say — you  would  have  tried 
to  be  a little  more  economical.  I declare  I don’t 
see  how  I’m  to  make  excuses  for  you,  if  I’m  asked 
to  it!” 

“ I can  not  imagine  anything  much  more  unlikely 
than  that  you  will  be  asked  to  make  excuses  for  me, 
Budgett,  and  I can  not  allow  you  to  scold  me  either. 
Please  remember  that  I am  no  longer  a child.” 

“ For  upward  of  fifteen  years,”  began  Budgett 
solemnly,  “ have  I been  striving  to  do  my  duty  by  you, 
Miss  Cuckoo,  and  to  carry  out  the  last  injunctions  laid 
upon  me  by  one  who ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  I know,”  interrupted  Cuckoo;  “ you 
have  mentioned  that  once  or  twice  before.  But  I am 
sure  you  never  can  have  received  injunctions  to  be  so 
intolerably  impertinent,  and  even  if  you  had  the  time 
would  now  have  come  for  you  to  disregard  them.  In 
your  own  interests,  I mean.” 

“ Perhaps,”  cried  Budgett,  folding  her  arms  and 
throwing  back  her  head,  “ you  will  have  the  goodness 
to  explain  what  you  mean  by  own  interests.” 

“ Certainly.  What  I mean  is  that  you  have  a 
good  place,  and  that  you  may  lose  it  by  trying  my 
patience  too  far.  Now,  I know  what  you  are  going 
to  say;  but  you  had  much  better  not  say  it,  unless  you 
wish  to  be  taken  at  your  word.  Let  it  be  agreed,  if 
you  like,  that  you  are  my  father’s  servant,  and  that 
only  he  can  dismiss  you;  nevertheless,  you  may  be 
sure  that  that  is  just  what  he  will  do  at  a hint  from 
me.” 

“ Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you?  ” cried  Budgett,  with 


184 


THE  WIDOWER. 


a menacing  smile.  “ Then,  since  you’re  so  kind  as  to 
advise  me  what  I had  better  do  and  not  do,  I’ll  offer 
you  a hit  of  advice  in  return.  Don’t  you  give  that 
hint,  or  you  may  be  sorry  you  spoke  when  it’s  too 
late.  As  for  my  situation,  I don’t  know  but  what  I 
oughtn’t,  in  justice  to  myself,  to  have  left  it  before 
now;  but  if  ever  I do  leave  it,  I shan’t  wait  to  be 
dismissed,  that  you  may  depend!  ” 

She  had  a good  deal  more  to  say,  but  she  re- 
frained from  saying  it,  partly  because  she  was  not  yet 
quite  prepared  to  divulge  all  she  knew,  partly  be- 
cause she  felt  that  in  another  moment  she  would 
break  forth  into  undignified  weeping.  No  sooner  had 
she  taken  herself  off,  with  the  flutter  of  petticoats  and 
squeaking  of  shoe  leather  which  characterise  her 
class  when  enraged,  than  Cuckoo,  who  was  scarcely 
less  angry,  marched  downstairs  to  her  father’s  study. 
She  had  heard  him  come  in,  not  long  before,  and 
she  judged  it  best  to  strike  while  the.  iron  was  hot — 
in  other  words,  while  she  was  still  sufficiently  irri- 
tated to  think  striking  worth  while.  Budgett  must 
really  be  brought  to  her  senses. 

James  listened  patiently  to  the  formal  complaint 
addressed  to  him.  He  was  very  tired,  very  much 
occupied  with  matters  of  public  importance,  and  not 
at  all  inclined  to  take  a side  in  trumpery  domestic 
wrangles;  but  his  grave,  sedate  manner  conveyed  no 
intimation  to  that  effect. 

“ If  you  wish  me  to  speak  to  the  woman,  I will,  of 
course,  do  so,”  he  said;  “but  I think  it  would  be 
better  for  her  to  take  her  orders  and  rebukes,  when 
rebukes  are  required,  from  you  now.” 


WARNING. 


185 


“ She  won’t  take  anything  from  me/’  Cuckoo  de- 
clared. 

“ Then  I will  tell  her  that  she  must  either  make 
up  her  mind  to  do  so  for  the  future,  or  look  out  for 
another  situation.  From  what  you  say,  and  from  the 
tone  which  she  herself  took  up  the  last  time  1 had  an 
interview  with  her,  I do  not  think  that  there  is  much 
prospect  of  your  being  able  to  retain  her  services,  such 
as  they  are;  but  that  must  be  a question  for  your  own 
decision.” 

“ She  is  sometimes  intolerable,  but  I believe  she 
is  fond  of  me  in  her  heart,”  observed  Cuckoo,  begin- 
ning to  relent.  “ And — and  I don’t  know  that  there 
is  anybody  else  in  the  world  of  whom  I can  venture 
to  say  that,”  she  added. 

James  stared  straight  before  him,  like  a graven 
image;  evidently  his  heart  was  proof  against  appeals 
and  insinuations  of  that  nature.  He  remarked,  after 
a pause,  that  perhaps  the  best  plan  would  be  to  pen- 
sion Budgett  off.  “ She  has  claims  upon  my  purse 
which  I am  quite  ready  to  admit.  I am  afraid  I can’t 
recognise  unlimited  claims  on  her  part  upon  my  time 
and  my  forbearance.  How,  do  you  wish  me,  to  send 
for  her  or  not?  ” 

“ I wish  you  to  send  for  her,  please,”  answered 
Cuckoo,  “ but  not  to  send  her  away,  if  you  can  help  it. 
I am  sorry  to  have  had  to  trouble  you;  only  I don’t 
see  what  else  I could  have  done.  Like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  she  is  afraid  of  you,  and  she  has  a supreme 
contempt  for  me.  In  that  respect  also  she  resembles 
the  rest  of  the  world,  I imagine.” 

Ho  rejoinder  or  contradiction  being  forthcoming, 


186 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Cuckoo  withdrew,  and  soon  afterward  Budgett  was 
summoned  into  the  presence  of  the  stern  employer 
whose  destiny,  she  kept  up  her  courage  by  reminding 
herself,  she  held  “ in  the  hollow  of  her  hand.” 

The  unconscious  victim  rushed  upon  his  doom. 
He  was  so  curt,  so  peremptory,  so  totally  regardless 
in  his  few  brief  remarks  of  what  was  due  to  long 
and  tried  fidelity  that  a self-respecting  woman  could 
do  no  less  than  give  him  warning  then  and  there. 

“Very  well,”  was  his  unhesitating  reply,  “so  be 
it.  You  can  not  have  forgotten,  Budgett,  what  I 
said  to  you  a short  time  ago  upon  this  subject,  and 
since  you  now  state  that  you  wish  to  leave  I will  not 
offer  you  an  opportunity  of  changing  your  mind.  I 
think  myself  that  the  time  has  quite  come  for  you 
to  give  up  a place  which  you  could  only  keep  upon 
conditions  to  which  you  do  not  choose  to  submit. 
But  I also  feel  that  the  past  can  not  be  ignored ” 

“ Oh,  if  it  comes  to  speaking  about  the  past!  ” in- 
terjected Budgett  meaningly. 

“ And  therefore,”  continued  J ames,  “ I must  not 
let  you  leave  this  house  without  making  suitable  pro- 
vision for  your  future.  Whether  you  decide  to  re- 
main in  domestic  service  or  not,  I shall  continue  to 
pay  you  the  same  annual  amount  that  you  have  lately 
been  receiving  as  wages,  and  this,  I hope,  will  at  least 
suffice  to  keep  you  beyond  fear  of  want.” 

The  annual  amount  which  Budgett  had  recently 
been  receiving  was  so  handsome  that  it  really  might 
almost  have  sufficed  to  maintain  her  in  idleness;  but 
everything,  after  all,  is  relative,  and  why  should  she 
be  grateful  for  such  an  offer  when  she  could,  if  she 


WARNING. 


187 


chose — or,  at  any  rate,  thought  she  could — extort 
double  or  treble  as  much  from  Mr.  Pennant  by  a mere 
threat  of  divulging  his  secret?  So  she  returned,  in 
accents  trembling  with  rage: 

“Not  one  penny,  sir! — not  one  penny,  I am  ob- 
liged to  you!  If,  after  all  I have  done — yes,  and  I 
may  say  all  I haven’t  done,  too! — for  you  and  yours, 
you  can  find  it  in  your  heart  and  conscience  to  turn 
me  out  of  doors,  I will  not  demean  myself  so  far  as 
to  accept  your  charity.  I will  only  say  this — the  con- 
sequences must  be  upon  your  own  head!  Don’t 
blame  me  if  I feel  at  liberty  now  to  mention  things 
as  I might  otherwise  have  took  with  me  to  my 
grave!  ” 

James  did  not  understand  her.  He  was  quite 
aware  that  things  might  truthfully  be  said  about  his 
late  wife  which  would  neither  redound  to  her  credit 
nor  contribute  to  his  comfort,  and  he  assumed  that  he 
was  menaced  with  a revelation  of  these;  but  he  was 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  yield  to  intimidation. 

“ My  good  woman,”  he  replied  coldly,  “ I am  not 
turning  you  out  of  doors;  you  have  given  me  notice. 
If  I do  not  allow  you  to  reconsider  your  intention — 
and  what  you  have  just  said  would,  in  any  case,  have 
determined  me  not  to  do  that — it  is  because  I see  no 
use  in  postponing  what  is  clearly  inevitable.  You 
can  either  leave  at  once  or  at  the  end  of  a month,  as 
you  please.  Either  way  your  wages  will  continue  to 
be  paid  to  you,  for  you  are,  of  course,  at  liberty  to 
reconsider  your  refusal — and  I have  no  doubt  that 
you  will  reconsider  it.” 

“ Then  I shall  leave  to-morrow  morning,  if  you 

13 


188 


THE  WIDOWER. 


please! 09  cried  Budgett,  choking  down  a host  of  emo- 
tions. 

Why  did  she  quit  the  room  without  so  much  as  at- 
tempting to  particularise  the  defiance  which  had  been 
met  with  such  supercilious  disregard?  Well,  she  had 
several  reasons  for  heating  her  inglorious  retreat,  of 
which  sheer  cowardice  was  only  one.  To  begin  with 
(and  this  was  what  she  preserved  her  self-esteem  by 
reflecting),  it  was  far  from  certain  that  so  proud  a 
man  as  James  Pennant  wTould  have  consented  to  pay 
blackmail,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  would  assur- 
edly dismiss,  without  character  or  pension,  any  serv- 
ant guilty  of  ransacking  his  private  papers.  Com- 
mon prudence  counselled  the  securing  of  a fresh  place 
as  a preliminary  step  to  further  operations.  But,  to 
do  the  woman  justice,  other  and  more  disinterested 
motives  had  some  weight  with  her.  She  vras,  like 
nearly  all  of  us,  neither  wholly  had  nor  entirely  good; 
she  shrank  a little  from  the  idea  of  ruining  a young 
life;  and  although  she  did  not  see  why  her  important 
discovery  should  he  allowed  to  count  for  nothing,  it 
vrent  against  the  grain  with  her  to  utilise  it  for  pur- 
poses of  mere  revenge.  Upon  the  wdiole,  therefore, 
she  resolved  that  Cuckoo  should  have  one  more 
chance. 

Her  method  of  intimating  this  concession  was  to 
announce  without  loss  of  time  to  the  subject  of  her 
intended  benevolence  that  all  was  over.  “No! 
after  wdiat  has  been  said  to  me  to-day  I couldn’t,  nor 
wouldn’t  stay  in  the  house  any  longer  than  it  will  take 
me  to  pack  up  my  things,  not  if  you  was  to  beg  me 
ever  so!  To-morrow  morning,  as  early  as  possible,  I 


WARNING. 


189 


leave,  and  so  I have  told  your — so  I have  told  Mr. 
Pennant.” 

“ You  are  extremely  foolish,  I think,”  was 
Cuckoo’s  only  remark. 

“ Not  so  foolish,  maybe,  as  others  whom  I could 
name,”  returned  Budgett  darkly.  “ Make  an  enemy 
of  me  and  you  make  an  enemy  of  no  fool,  that  I can 
assure  you!  Didn’t  I warn  you,  when  you  spoke  of 
giving  hints,  that  you  would  he  sorry  for  it  if  you  did  ? 
And,  in  the  face  of  that,  what  must  you  do  hut  run 
downstairs  and  complain  of  me!  Now  it  just  comes 
to  this ” 

“ It  just  comes  to  this,”  interrupted  Cuckoo,  who 
was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers,  “ that  you  are  nobody’s 
enemy  hut  your  own.  What  do  you  expect  me  to 
do?  I told  my  father  that  I didn’t  wish  you  to  be 
sent  away,  but  it  seems  that  you  have  sent  yourself 
away.  Really. I can’t  help  that.” 

“ For  the  sake  of  my  poor  dear  mistress  as  is  no 
more,”  Budgett  solemnly  declared,  “ I have  submitted 
to  a deal!  I won’t  say  but  what  I might  even  now — 
for  her  sake — be  willing  to  overlook  the  ingratitude 
and  the  rudeness  that  I have  had  to  bear  this  day. 
But  if,  after  all  I have  done  and  borne  for  you,  Miss 
Cuckoo,  you  no  more  mind  parting  with  me  than 
you  would  with  a common  kitchen-maid,  then  all  I 
can  say  is  that  you  must  have  a bad  heart,  and  I shall 
not  regret  being  forced  to  leave  you!  ” 

“ I don’t  know  what  you  have  done  and  borne, 
Budgett,”  Cuckoo  returned  impatiently.  “ I should 
have  said  that  you  had  had  a remarkably  easy  and 
well-paid  place  for  a great  many  years,  and  that  you 


190 


THE  WIDOWER. 


have  been  allowed  to  take  liberties  which  have  done 
yon  no  good.  Anyhow,  I am  not  going  to  beg  you  to 
stay  against  your  will.” 

The  altercation  was  continued  in  this  style  for 
another  ten  minutes  or  so,  by  which  time  both  parties 
to  it  were  thoroughly  exasperated.  Budgett,  who  had 
been  the  reverse  of  conciliatory  throughout,  and 
whose  repeated  innuendoes  to  the  effect  that  it  would 
be  found  dangerous  to  quarrel  with  her  fell  flat, 
wound  up  with  a nobly  dramatic  gesture. 

“ I wash  my  hands  of  you!  ” she  cried.  “ I have 
done  with  you!  You  are  a scorpion!  ” 

What  put  the  finishing  touch  to  her  fury  was  that 
Cuckoo  could  not  help  laughing  a little.  She  left 
the  room,  and  on  the  following  morning — the  over- 
tures for  w'hich  she  secretly  continued  to  hope  until 
the  last  minute  not  having  been  made — left  the  house, 
shaking  the  dust  off  her  feet  as  she  departed  for  a 
testimony  against  it. 

It  was  now  a matter  of  certainty  that  she  would 
not  fail  to  serve  her  late  employers  an  ill  turn;  but 
neither  of  them  felt  much  fear  of  her,  nor  did  a note 
which  Cuckoo  received  within  a week  from  Lady 
Rochdale  strike  her  as  being  the  precursor  of  mis- 
fortune. Her  ladyship  wrote  to  make  inquiries  re- 
specting “ a woman  named  Budgett,  who  has  applied 
to  me  for  a situation  as  lady’s  maid.  She  tells  me 
that  she  has  been  any  number  of  years  in  your  serv- 
ice and  has  now  left  by  her  own  wish.  The  wages 
which  she  states  that  she  has  received  sound  to  me 
quite  ridiculous,  but  as  she  is  ready  to  take  less  and 
seems  to  understand  her  duties,  I am  inclined  to  give 


WARNING. 


191 


her  a trial,  provided  that  you  can  give  me  satisfactory 
answers  to  the  following  questions.” 

The  questions  which  followed  admitted  of  being 
answered  in  a manner  both  truthful  and  satisfactory, 
and  Budgett  was  magnanimously  eulogised. 

“ The  least  that  I could  do  was  to  praise  her  up 
to  the  skies,”  Cuckoo  afterward  remarked.  “ Impos- 
sible though  she  had  made  herself  of  late,  I do  feel 
rather  guilty  about  her,  and  I shall  be  very  glad  if 
she  succeeds  so  soon  in  getting  a good  place.” 

“ With  Lady  Rochdale?”  said  James.  “Well, 
yes,  I suppose  that  would  be  called  a good  place. 
She  is  to  be  congratulated,  no  doubt.” 

He  was  thinking  that  he  himself  was  scarcely  to 
be  congratulated;  for  of  all  women  Lady  Rochdale 
was  about  the  last  whom  he  would  have  wished  to  be 
informed  of  poor  Ada’s  escapades.  Yet  the  stirring 
up  of  those  ancient  scandals — if,  as  seemed  not  un- 
likely, they  were  about  to  be  stirred  up — could  not, 
after  all,  he  reflected,  do  either  him  or  Cuckoo  much 
practical  harm.  He  never  gave  a thought  to  the 
trouble  which  might  overtake  them  both,  should  the 
facts  relating  to  his  supposed  daughter’s  parentage 
transpire;  for  those  facts,  he  felt  sure,  were  known 
to  nobody  in  England  but  himself. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


ViE  VICTORIBUS. 

“ So  you  are  going  to  smite  them  hip  and  thigh/* 
said  Lady  Wardlaw,  in  accents  of  cheerful  anticipa- 
tion. “ High  time,  too!  ** 

“ There  is  no  doubt/*  answered  James  Pennant, 
“ about  its  being  high  time  for  them  to  he  smitten. 
The  only  question  is  whether  the  blow,  if  it  succeeds, 
won*t  fall  too  late  to  avert  the  consequences  of  their 
insane  policy.  However,  they  have  had  to  give  us  a 
day  for  our  vote  of  censure.** 

“ Which  will  be  moved  by  you,  I hope.** 

“ Oh,  of  course  not  by  me;  that  wTill  be  my  leader*s 
duty.  But  I shall  speak,  and  I shall  have  a good 
deal  to  say.** 

“ Naturally  you  will.  Everybody  must  recognise, 
and  does  recognise,  that  you  have  made  this  subject 
your  own.  Let  that  miserably  incompetent  old  Roch- 
dale have  it  hot  and  strong,  that*s  all!  I am  sure  he 
deserves  the  worst  that  can  be  proclaimed  against 
him!  ** 

“ I think  he  does,  and  I do  not  propose  to  show 
him  any  mercy/*  replied  James,  rather  grimly. 

That  Lord  Rochdale  had  proved  himself  a mis- 
erably incompetent  Colonial  Secretary  was  indeed 
192 


ViE  VICTORIBUS. 


193 


scarcely  to  be  denied,  even  by  those  whom  party 
allegiance  compelled  to  defend  him,  and  his  recent 
exploits,  which  had  brought  about  so  irritated  a state 
of  public  feeling  in  one  of  the  principal  dependencies 
of  the  empire  that  civil  war  seemed  to  be  almost  in 
sight,  were  not  at  all  unlikely  to  wreck  the  then  exist- 
ing administration.  They  would  perhaps  have 
wrecked  it  already  had  the  ministerial  majority  in  the 
House  of  Commons  been  less  strong;  but  this  ma- 
jority was  now  beginning  to  waver  and  diminish — 
shaken,  it  was  believed,  in  no  small  degree  by  the 
vigorous  and  telling  attacks  of  the  Eight  Honourable 
James  Pennant. 

“ It  looks  to  me,  my  dear  James,”  resumed  Lady 
Wardlaw,  “ as  if  you  had  reached  that  tide  in  your 
fortunes  which,  taken  at  the  flood,  ought  to  land  you 
in  the  next  Cabinet.  Then,  I presume,  you  will  be 
happy.” 

Sitting  in  the  Berkeley  Square  drawing-room  that 
afternoon,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin 
resting  upon  his  folded  hands,  he  did  not  look  par- 
ticularly happy,  nor  did  the  brilliant  prospect  pre- 
dicted for  him  by  his  cousin  bring  a smile  to  his 
grave  eyes  and  lips. 

“ I suppose  I should  like  to  be  a Cabinet  min- 
ister,” he  observed  presently;  “that  sort  of  thing  is 
the  natural  and  visible  sign  of  success,  and  one  has  to 
be  contented  with  such  sorts  of  things  as  come  within 
the  range  of  possibility.  Unfortunately,  one  never 
is.” 

“James,  you  exasperate  me!  What,  in  the  name 
of  goodness,  would  you  have?  You  went  in,  heart 


194 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  soul,  for  politics,  simply  because  you  couldn’t  be 
induced  to  go  in  for  anything  else,  and  now  that  po- 
litical life  has  done,  or  is  upon  the  point  of  doing,  its 
utmost  for  you,  you  have  the  air  of  being  a blighted, 
disappointed  mortal.  It  really  isn’t  reasonable  of 
you!  ” 

“ Yet  I thought  that  if  there  was  a quality  upon 
which  I might  venture  to  pride  myself  a little,  it  was 
precisely  my  reasonableness.” 

“ That  only  shows  what  an  imperfect  comprehen- 
sion you  have  of  your  own  nature.  Now  I have 
always  read  you  like  a book,  and  if  you  would  only 
have  consented  to  be  guided  by  me! — but  it  is  too  late 
in  the  day  by  this  time,  I am  afraid.” 

“Mercy  upon  us,  yes!  Whatever  we  do,  let  us 
not  hark  back  to  schemes  for  my  welfare  from  which 
I am  now,  happily,  protected  by  advanced  age.  If  I 
had  consented  to  be  guided  by  you,  Jane,  I should 
doubtless  at  this  moment  be  the  husband  of  some 
charming  lady  whom  I could  not  hope  to  charm,  and 
with  whom  it  is  certain  that  Cuckoo  would  never 
have  hit  it  off.  Oh,  I quite  admit  that  if  matters 
are  not  in  all  respects  what  one  could  wish,  they 
might  be  a great  deal  worse.” 

“ Don’t  you  think,”  suggested  Lady  Wardlaw  re- 
luctantly, “that  we  are  apt  to  expect  rather  too 
much?  Isn’t  it  wiser,  I mean,  to  make  the  best  of 
events — and  people — such  as  they  are?  Because  it’s 
impossible  for  them  to  be  made  to  order,  you  know.” 

She  spoke  with  reluctance,  for  she  guessed  what 
he  was  driving  at  and  would  fain  have  avoided  the 
subject.  She  had  no  very  solid  comfort  to  offer  him; 


WE  VICTORIBUS. 


195 


she  could  not  but  be  aware  that  Cuckoo’s  failure  to 
hit  it  off  with  him  had  been  as  complete  as  though  he 
had  been  that  imaginary  stepmother,  and  she  doubted 
whether  the  girl  was  altogether  to  blame  for  that. 
Moreover,  she  was  uncomfortably  conscious  of  having 
been  herself  to  blame  in  certain  ways.  When  one 
undertakes  to  look  after  a debutante , one  does  not, 
after  all,  permit  her  to  show  herself  here,  there,  and 
everywhere  with  a Harry  Carew. 

“ You  are  quite  right,”  answered  James,  who  per- 
haps understood  his  old  ally  well  enough  to  know 
what  was  passing  through  her  mind;  “ one  has  to  take 
them  as  one  finds  them — and  one  finds  the  female 
variety  of  them  made  after  an  unvarying  pattern, 
more’s  the  pity!  ” 

Loyalty  to  her  own  sex  impelled  Lady  Wardlaw 
to  remark  that  men  also,  with  a very  few  exceptions, 
were  cast  in  an  identical  mould,  which  was  not  ex- 
actly an  ideal  one. 

“ As  for  you,  you  are  only  exceptional  in  the  sense 
of  being  an  exaggeration  of  the  ordinary  male  type, 
and  that  is  what  makes  you  so  horribly  unjust  to  us. 
If  you  had  a son  you  would  look  on  placidly  while  he 
sowed  his  wild  oats  and  accept  his  youthful  peccadil- 
loes as  only  natural;  why  can’t  you  admit  that  we, 
too,  in  our  much  more  modest  and  harmless  way, 
must  pass  though  the  same  phase?  ” 

“ Oh,  if  you  are  sure  that  your  ways  are  so  much 
more  modest  and  harmless!  ” 

“ I am  sure  that  it  will  be  all  right,  J ames,  unless 
you  contrive  by  ill-timed  sneers  and  sarcasms  to  make 
it  all  wrong.  I dare  say  I have  been  rather  negligent, 


196 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  perhaps  Harry  Carew  may  have  done  a little  mis- 
chief— not  half  as  much  as  you  can  do,  though,  if 
you  give  your  mind  to  it.  But  after  the  next  Draw- 
ing-room a fresh  start  will  be  made  and  the  horizon 
considerably  widened.  Continue  to  busy  yourself 
with  the  public  affairs  in  which  you  are  quite  at 
home,  and  leave  domestic  policy,  in  which  you  are  all 
abroad,  to  me.  I make  so  bold  as  to  assert  that  I am 
a trustworthy  delegate.” 

That  was  about  as  near  an  approach  to  outspoken 
confidence  as  they  reached.  J ames  longed  to  be  con- 
soled and  reassured,  but  he  could  hardly  ask  for  what 
he  wanted  without  announcing  in  so  many  words  that 
Cuckoo  had  deliberately  deceived  him,  and  that  he 
had  lost  all  confidence  in  the  girl.  Even  to  Jane 
Wardlaw  is  was  impossible,  consistently  with  his  no- 
tions of  honourable  reticence,  to  make  such  a state- 
ment; so  he  was  fain  to  rest  satisfied  with  her  buoyant 
promises,  which  he  took  to  mean  that  a husband  of 
whom  nobody  could  disapprove  would  be  forthcoming 
in  the  near  future.  And  in  truth  he  was  a person 
much  to  be  desired,  that  forthcoming  husband. 
Women,  it  would  seem,  are  created  primarily  in  order 
that  they  may  marry  and  bear  children;  the  process 
draws  forth  their  essential  virtues  and  softens  down, 
if  it  does  not  wholly  extirpate,  their  failings;  many 
a disappointing  daughter  has  proved  herself  an  ad- 
mirable wife  and  mother;  and,  as  Lady  Wardlaw  had 
sensibly  remarked,  disappointment  is  the  just  reward 
of  those  who  expect  too  much.  Nevertheless,  a seat 
in  some  possible  future  Cabinet  could  scarcely  be  ac- 
counted as  adequate  compensation,  and  James, 


V^E  VICTORIBUS. 


197 


marching  homeward  with  head  bent,  sighed  as  he  said 
to  himself  in  the  words  of  a poet  whose  writings  had 
often  found  an  echo  in  his  heart,  “ Thou  hast  been, 
shalt  be,  art,  alone.” 

For  the  matter  of  that,  there  was  in  Ennismore 
Gardens  another  poor  mortal  not  less  lonely  than 
he,  nor  less  convinced  that  permanent  loneliness  was 
her  destiny,  though  very  much  less  resigned  to  the 
prospect.  For  Cuckoo  it  remained,  as  it  had  ever 
been,  a matter  of  w^ell-nigh  paramount  necessity  that 
she  should  be  loved.  She  had  in  her  an  unbounded 
store  of  love,  ready  to  be  lavished  upon  somebody, 
and  nobody  (save  one  quite  inadmissible  scamp) 
seemed  to  be  in  the  least  ambitious  of  laying  claim 
upon  it.  This  was  a very  sad,  and  even  a somewhat 
dangerous,  state  of  things;  but  the  sadness  of  it  was 
a good  deal  more  apparent  to  her  than  the  danger. 
She  had  not  seen  Harry  Carew  since  that  impulsive 
avowal  of  his  at  Hurst  Park,  and  did  not — so  she  told 
herself — want  to  see  him.  Or,  at  least,  if  she  occa- 
sionally did,  that  was  only  by  reason  of  a certain  tacit 
understanding  between  them,  due  probably  to  simi- 
larity of  character.  Harry,  she  was  sure,  would  un- 
derstand how  easy  it  is  to  do  wrong  without  being 
really  bad  at  heart — a thing  obviously  incomprehen- 
sible in  her  father.  Of  him  she  despaired  and  gath- 
ered that  he  intended  her  to  despair.  She  did  not 
even  attempt  to  show  him  that  she  was  sorry  for  what 
she  had  done,  conscious  that  such  efforts  were  fore- 
doomed to  failure;  their  estrangement  was  the  more 
marked  because  they  were  as  polite  and  pleasant  as 
possible  to  one  another  when  they  met. 


198 


THE  WIDOWER. 


They  met  at  dinner  that  same  evening,  and  from 
soup  to  dessert  they  talked  wholly  and  solely  about 
the  threatened  destruction  of  a world-wide  empire. 
It  is  true  that  an  impending  conflict  in  a distant  re- 
gion might  not  necessarily  bring  about  that  sad  result, 
and  it  is  also  true  that  such  reasons  as  existed  for 
apprehending  it  could  scarcely  be  made  clear  to 
Cuckoo,  who  neither  knew  nor  appeared  to  care  what 
were  the  merits  and  demerits  of  the  actual  contro- 
versy; but  some  subject  of  conversation  had  to  be 
discovered,  and  the  ineptitude  of  the  Secretary  of 
State  for  the  Colonies  answered  the  required  purpose 
well  enough. 

Cuckoo  at  length  struck  a somewhat  more  per- 
sonal note  in  the  discussion  by  remarking: 

“ I shall  be  curious  to  see  what  Fitzroy  will  do 
after  you  have  torn  his  future  father-in-law  limb 
from  limb.  I should,  think  his  best  plan  would  be  to 
cut  our  acquaintance.” 

“ I am  not  aware  that  Lord  Rochdale  is  to  be 
Fitzroy’s  father-in-law,”  answered  James;  “ but  even 
in  that  event,  I hope  he  would  not  act  so  foolishly  as 
to  quarrel  with  his  nearest  relations.  He  has  too 
much  common  sense,  I imagine,  to  adopt  a course 
which  would  be  as  inconvenient  to  himself  as  it  would 
be  to  me.” 

“ Oh,  one  can  practically  cut  people  without  an 
open  quarrel,  and  he  undoubtedly  means  to  marry 
Lady  Elizabeth,  and  there  would  be  a good  deal  of 
inconvenience,  surely,  in  his  keeping  up  a show  of 
intimacy  with  us — not  to  mention  the  inconvenance 
of  it!  Oh,  no;  he  had  much  better  go  over  to  the 


YM  YICTORIBUS. 


199 


enemy  at  once,  bag  and  baggage,  instead  of  trying 
ridiculously  to  stand  with  a foot  in  each  camp.  But 
I dare  say  he  will  be  ridiculous  enough  to  make  the 
attempt.” 

“ Political  enemies,”  remarked  J ames,  “ may  be 
friends  in  private  life.  It  so  happens  that  I rather 
dislike  Lord  Rochdale  personally  and  that  he  dislikes 
me;  but  I should  be  very  sorry  to  force  you  into 
espousing  my  quarrels,  public  or  private.” 

“ You  can’t  very  well  help  it,  can  you?  Be- 
sides, I really  don’t  care.” 

James  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  upon  the  speaker. 
When  a wdman  asserts  that  she  does  not  care  she  usu- 
ally means,  of  course,  that  she  does,  and  for  a mo- 
ment it  crossed  his  mind  as  a possibility  that  he  was 
being  made  the  subject  of  an  indirect  reproach.  But 
Cuckoo  met  his  gaze  without  embarrassment  and  re- 
plied unhesitatingly  to  his  unspoken  question. 

“ The  grapes  are  not  sour,”  said  she;  “ the  Radi- 
cals and  the  Rochdales  are  quite  welcome  to  our  poor 
Fitz.  He  is  beautiful  and  wise  and  good,  but  I find 
that  I haven’t  any  use  for  him  myself.” 

James  smothered  a sigh.  Nothing  seemed  more 
probable  than  that  Cuckoo  could  find  “ no  use  ” for 
a young  man  wdio  w^as  wise  and  good;  yet  nobody 
stood  in  greater  need  of  a permanent  protector  wrho 
possessed  those  titles  to  esteem.  However,  it  was  a 
good  thing,  no  doubt,  that  she  had  not  lost  her  heart 
to  her  cousin,  since  his  affections,  to  all  appearance, 
had  been  bestowed  elsewhere. 

A few  days  after  this  Miss  Pennant  was  conducted 
by  Lady  Wardlaw  to  the  House  of  Commons,  in  order 


200 


THE  WIDOWER. 


that  she  might  enjoy  the  privilege  of  looking  down 
upon  a scene  and  listen  to  orations  which  promised 
to  be  of  historical  interest.  The  adjourned  debate 
upon  the  vote  of  censure  was  in  full  swing  that 
evening,  and  ministers  were  considered,  so  far,  to  have 
had  a little  the  best  of  it.  They  had  succeeded,  that 
is  to  say,  in  justifying  their  policy  to  the  extent  that, 
given  certain  premises,  it  was  difficult  to  see  how  they 
could  have  acted  otherwise  than  as  they  had  done. 
Fears,  however,  were  entertained  on  one  side  of  the 
House  and  hopes  on  the  other  that  these  premises  were 
about  to  be  ruthlessly  cut  from  beneath  their  feet, 
and  that  was  why  belated  members  had  to  content 
themselves  with  standing  room  when  James  Pennant 
rose  to  make  his  expected  onslaught. 

It  proved  a fine  fighting  speech,  that  onslaught 
of  his,  finely  delivered  and  supported  by  the  logic 
of  proved  facts  which  he  had  at  his  fingers’  ends. 
His  task  was,  in  one  sense,  comparatively  easy,  since 
he  had  public  opinion,  as  well  as  facts,  at  his  back; 
yet  we  know  that  majorities  can  not  always  be  in- 
duced to  convert  themselves  into  minorities,  even 
with  the  aid  of  such  powerful  allies,  and  perhaps  the 
method  employed  by  the  orator  was  the  only  one 
which,  at  a moment  of  crisis,  inopportune  for  a 
change  of  leadership,  was  likely  to  achieve  the  desired 
result.  This  was  simply  to  seize  the  chief  offender  by 
the  throat  and  nail  his  ears  to  the  pump.  For  such 
chivalry  and  loyalty  as  may  be  implied  in  sticking 
to  an  erring  colleague  Mr.  Pennant  was  willing  to 
allow  her  Majesty’s  ministers  full  credit;  still,  as  they 
had  seen  fit  to  make  his  policy  their  own,  they  must 


ViE  VICTORIBUS. 


201 


stand  or  fall  with  him,  and  possibly  they  were  not 
altogether  reluctant  to  fall.  That  his  policy  would 
have  to  be  reversed  with  promptitude  and  decision 
many  of  their  followers,  if  not  they  themselves,  doubt- 
less knew;  the  essential  thing  was  that  as  little  time  as 
possible  should  be  lost  in  relieving  them  and  the  na- 
tion of  responsibility  for  recent  criminally  foolish 
proceedings. 

Always  a clear  and  incisive  speaker,  James  rose  on 
this  occasion  to  heights  of  almost  passionate  elo- 
quence, and  his  denunciation  of  the  Colonial  Secretary 
was  listened  to  with  obvious  glee  by  not  a few  of  his 
opponents;  for,  in  truth,  matters  had  reached  such  a 
pass  that  a scapegoat  was  urgently  needed.  The  Un- 
der Secretary  for  the  Colonies  did  what  he  could  for 
his  chief  by  striking  in  again  and  again  with  inter- 
ruptions and  corrections,  but  these  availed  him  little. 
Whether  Lord  Rochdale  was  or  was  not  as  black  as 
his  assailant  painted  him,  he  stood  convicted  of  un- 
pardonable bungling,  and  by  the  time  that  the  House 
adjourned  the  general  opinion  was  that  ministers 
could  not  hope  to  escape  defeat. 

Long  before  that  hour  the  exultant  Lady  Wardlaw 
was  entertaining  a select  circle  of  friends  at  supper 
in  Berkeley  Square,  whither  Cuckoo  had  returned 
with  her.  Lady  Wardlaw  and  her  guests  had  attended 
the  sitting  of  the  House  of  Commons  much  as  they 
might  have  attended  a new  play,  and  had  found  it 
much  more  worth  their  while  than  the  best  piece  of 
the  season.  They  were  loud  in  their  praises  of  the 
chief  actor,  declaring  that  to  him  alone  belonged  the 
glory  of  the  assured  victory,  and  predicting  for  him 


202 


THE  WIDOWER. 


future  honours  which,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  been  at 
last  brought  well  within  his  grasp. 

“ Tout  vient  d -fin  pour  qui  suit  attendre”  his 
cousin  complacently  remarked.  “ I have  always  hoped 
to  see  James  Prime  Minister  before  the  end  of  the 
century,  and  now  I am  quite  sure  that  I shall.” 

Sir  William  remarked  that  he  was  reluctant  to 
throw  cold  water  upon  excusable  ambitions  and  en- 
thusiasms, but,  for  his  part,  he  must  take  leave  to 
doubt  whether  a Prime  Minister  could  be  evolved  out 
of  the  material  in  question.  “ James  is  as  brilliant 
a debater  as  you  please,  and  an  able  head  of  a depart- 
ment into  the  bargain,  but  he  is  much  too  confound- 
edly honest  to  succeed  as  leader  of  a party.  He 
wouldn’t  budge  an  inch  to  conciliate  anybody,  and  he 
would  disown  his  best  friend  like  a shot  if  he  sus- 
pected him  of  having  played  either  the  knave  or  the 
fool.” 

“I  think  that  is  true,  don’t  you?”  said  Cuckoo 
to  her  neighbour,  addressing  him  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  seated  himself  beside  her. 

“ I should  hope  so,”  Fitzroy  replied.  “ I am  not 
much  of  a politician  myself,  and  I don’t  quite  under- 
stand what  all  the  row  is  about,  but  I know  I would 
a good  deal  rather  be  as  straight  as  Uncle  James  than 
be  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  or  whatever  it  is  that 
he  is  threatened  with  becoming.” 

“ Oh,  you  are  as  straight  as  he  is,”  returned 
Cuckoo,  upon  whom  this  statement  acted  like  the 
flick  of  a lash  on  a raw  spot.  “ Nobody  could  be 
straighter  than  you  are,  both  of  you — or  more  inca- 
pable of  making  allowances  for  the  crooked  rest  of  us. 


YM  VICTORIBUS. 


203 


One  admires  your  rigidity,  but  one  feels  that  it  can 
only  be  admired  comfortably  from  a distance — at 
which,  to  do  you  justice,  you  are  careful  to  hold  in- 
ferior beings.” 

“ I am  sure  I have  never  held  you  at  a distance, 
Cuckoo,”  remonstrated  the  young  man  reproachfully. 

“ You  are  sure,  I dare  say,  that  you  have  never 
done  anything  you  ought  not  to  have  done,  nor  left 
undone  anything  you  ought  to  have  done.  How  nice 
that  must  be  for  you!  Not  that  you  wouldn’t  have 
been  fully  justified  in  turning  a sorrowful  back  upon, 
the  likes  of  me,  and  not  that  you  won’t  have  to  do  it 
now,  justifiably  or  not.  Lord  Rochdale  can’t  forgive 
that  speech,  can  he?” 

Fitzroy  sighed.  In  his  opinion  it  was  rather 
doubtful  whether  Lord  Rochdale  could,  while  it  was 
almost  certain  that  Lady  Rochdale  would  not.  He 
did  not,  however,  say  so,  but  only  answered  Cuckoo’s 
question  with  another. 

“ What  has  Lord  Rochdale’s  displeasure  to  do 
with  my  turning  my  back  upon  you? — supposing,  for 
the  sake  of  argument,  that  anything  would  ever  make 
me  do  such  a thing.” 

Cuckoo  tucked  in  her  chin,  inflated  her  cheeks, 
half  closed  her  eyes  and  replied,  in  a thick,  gobbling 
voice:  “My  dear  boy,  I wouldn’t  for  the  world  ask 
you  to  quarrel  with  your  people,  but  after  the  way  in 
which  we  have  been  insulted  by  Mr.  Pennant,  it  will 
be  out  of  the  question  for  us  to  keep  up  the  acquaint- 
ance. Be  civil  to  them,  by  all  means,  when  you  meet 
them,  only  don’t  go  out  of  your  way  to  meet  them.” 

It  was  Lady  Rochdale  to  the  life,  and  Fitzroy, 
14 


204 


THE  WIDOWER. 


vexed  though  he  was,  could  not  help  laughing  a little 
at  the  excellence  of  Cuckoo’s  mimicry.  “ But  I don’t 
take  orders  from  that  quarter/’  he  protested. 

“ You  will  get  them,”  the  girl  declared,  adding, 
after  a moment,  “ it  really  doesn’t  matter.” 

He  said  something  about  its  mattering  a good  deal 
to  him  if  it  did  not  to  her,  but  she  had  already  risen 
from  the  supper  table,  and  he  had  no  subsequent  op- 
portunity of  speaking  to  her  before  he  took  his  leave. 
He  went  away  rather  sadly,  for  he  perceived  that  he 
had  somehow  offended  his  cousin,  and  he  could  not 
doubt  that  that  eloquent  diatribe  of  his  uncle’s  would 
produce  the  results  which  she  foretold. 

It  was  producing  them  at  the  very  moment  when 
Fitzroy,  smoking  a meditative  cigarette  beneath  the 
stars,  was  on  his  way  towards  the  Guards’  Club.  Lady 
Rochdale,  home  from  an  official  dinner,  followed  by 
an  official  reception,  had  heard  from  her  vexed  lord 
what  he  had  just  heard  himself — namely,  that  he  had 
received  his  official  deathblow — and  it  was  therefore 
not  surprising  that  her  ladyship,  who,  when  out  of 
temper,  had  little  control  over  her  tongue,  should  be 
saying  bitter  and  indiscreet  things  to  her  maid,  while 
divesting  herself  of  her  jewelled  trappings. 

“ If  you  have  a grudge  against  that  Pennant  man, 
Budgett — as  I gather  from  what  you  have  insinuated 
to  me  that  you  have — now  is  your  time  to  avenge 
yourself  upon  him.  I would  give  a good  deal  to  be 
able  to  pay  him  out  for  what  he  has  done,  and  you 
seem  to  be  bursting  with  some  mystery  or  other. 
What  is  it?  You  shall  have  twenty  pounds  for  it  if 
it  is  worth  twenty  pounds.” 


VM  VICTORIBUS. 


205 


Not  for  twenty  thousand  pounds,  Budgett  virtu- 
ously declared,  would  she  consent  to  divulge  any  se- 
cret which  might  work  injury  to  a fellow-creature; 
and  although  this  may  have  been  a slight  exaggera- 
tion, it  was  probably  true  that  she  was  as  incorrup- 
tible as  most  people.  But  then  it  was  also  true  that 
she  was,  as  Lady  Rochdale  had  asserted,  bursting  with 
her  mystery,  while  it  was  just  possible  that  the  sense 
of  duty  to  which  she  laid  claim  might  have  had  a cer- 
tain distorted  actuality  in  her  mind.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  Lady  Rochdale,  by  the  time  that  she  went  to 
bed,  had  been  placed  in  possession  of  a story  which 
kept  her  wide-awake  with  anticipated  triumph. 
James  Pennant  was  going  to  deprive  her  and  her  hus- 
band of  place  and  pay.  Well,  that  could  not  be 
helped,  but  at  all  events  his  nose  should  be  rubbed  in 
the  dust  for  it! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 

When  a vote  of  censure  upon  the  Government  had 
been  carried  by  a narrow  majority  in  the  House  of 
Commons  and  a very  large  one  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
enlightened  and  patriotic  persons  made  haste  to  pat 
James  Pennant  on  the  back.  It  was  the  least  that 
they  could  do,  seeing  that,  by  their  account,  he  had 
preserved  the  British  Empire  from  deadly  peril,  and 
he  accepted  their  compliments  and  congratulations 
without  protest,  if  with  no  great  appearance  of  exulta- 
tion; for  he  felt  that  he  had  in  truth  deserved  well  of 
his  country.  Credit  was  his  due,  in  that  he  had  per- 
formed a public  duty  with  conspicuous  success,  and 
those  (there  were  a few  such)  who  whispered  that  his 
attack  upon  an  incompetent  minister  had  been 
prompted  by  motives  of  private  enmity,  could  not 
have  known  much  about  the  man. 

High  office  was  likewise  due  to  him;  there  could 
be  no  question  as  to  that,  nor  very  much  as  to  its  be- 
ing offered  to  him  as  soon  as  inevitable  resignations 
should  have  been  accepted,  and  the  leader  of  the  Tory 
party  be  placed  in  a position  to  recognise  services  ren- 
dered to  the  cause.  Lady  Wardlaw  considered  that 
her  cousin  ought,  in  common  self-respect,  to  demand 
either  the  Chancellorship  of  the  Exchequer  or  the 
206 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER,  OWN  WAY. 


207 


Home  Secretaryship — nothing  less.  “ You  are  indis- 
pensable; so  you  can  dictate  your  own  terms,”  said 
she.  “ Make  yourself  cheap,  and  you  will  be  de- 
servedly trodden  under  foot.” 

James  knew  that  he  was  not  indispensable,  nor 
had  he  the  slightest  intention  of  demanding  any- 
thing; certainly  he  did  not  aspire  to  fill  posts  upon 
which  the  claims  of  more  experienced  statesmen  could 
scarcely  be  ignored.  Nevertheless,  he  tasted  some  of 
the  joys  of  a conquering  hero.  Honours  and  rewards 
are  all  very  well  if  they  come,  and  if  they  have  been 
earned;  but  even  when  they  are  withheld  a man  may 
derive  legitimate  satisfaction  from  the  knowledge  that 
he  has  done  his 'best  in  a subordinate  capacity,  and 
has  accomplished  his  purpose.  Satisfaction  of  this 
kind  was  the  more  welcome  to  Mr.  Pennant  inas- 
much as  it  seemed  to  represent  the  sum  total  of  what 
life  had  still  to  bestow  upon  him.  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  he  might  possibly  become  some  fine  day, 
a man  of  mark  in  the  Conservative  ranks  he  already 
was  and  was  sure  to  remain;  in  all  other  fields  he  had 
to  pronounce  himself  a present  and  prospective  fail- 
ure. As  a father  (or  nominal  father)  he  had,  for  ex- 
ample, hopelessly  broken  down.  Cuckoo  was  about 
as  unlike  the  girl  of  his  dreams — the  truthful, 
straightforward,  semimasculine  young  woman  whom 
he  had  essayed  to  create — as  she  could  possibly  be. 
He  thought,  moreover,  that  she  disliked,  rather  than 
liked  him,  while  her  absolute  lack  of  interest  in  the 
career  which  he  had  chosen  was  too  evident  to  stand 
in  need  of  being  emphasized.  Yet  she  was  pleased 
to  exhibit  this  in  an  emphatic  style. 


208 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ Is  it  really  so  tremendously  serious?”  she  in- 
quired. “ Does  it  so  very  much  matter,  I mean, 
whether  Lord  Rochdale  or  some  other  pompous  old 
person  rules  at  the  Colonial  Office?  One  understands 
that  it  may  matter  a good  deal  whether  this  or  that 
horse  wins  the  Derby.” 

“ It  matters  a little  more  than  that,  I think,”  an- 
swered James. 

Cuckoo  yawned.  “ Does  it?  I should  have 
thought  it  was  a question  of  stakes  in  both  cases — and 
bets,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  the  Derby.  But  in 
the  House  of  Commons  you  don’t  back  yourselves 
for  a place,  perhaps.  I wonder  you  don’t;  it 
would  help  to  enliven  the  monotony  of  the  proceed- 
ings.” 

James  only  responded  by  a silent  shrug  of  his 
shoulders.  Such  juvenile  levity  and  impertinence 
might  have  made  him  laugh,  had  he  not  perceived 
that  the  speaker’s  intention  was  to  wound.  And 
wounded  he  was;  for  indeed  those  whom  we  love 
always  carry  a dagger  in  their  hands  which,  whether 
they  use  it  skilfully  or  clumsily,  can  not  fail  to  find 
its  way  through  the  joints  of  our  harness.  What  he 
did  not  realise  was  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to 
strike  hack,  and  that  he  did  so  in  a most  effective  man- 
ner by  keeping  his  lips  closed.  Cuckoo,  little  as  he 
supposed  it,  was  proud  of  the  laurels  that  he  had 
won,  eager  to  he  taken  into  his  confidence,  mortified 
by  his  apparently  contemptuous  disregard  of  her,  and 
jealous  of  the  frequent  conferences  which  he  held 
with  Lady  Wardlaw  during  this  period  of  political 
disturbance  and  change.  If  only  he  could  have  been 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 


209 


provoked  into  a quarrel*  But  that  essentially  fem- 
inine method  of  causing  the  clouds  to  hurst  and  giv- 
ing the  sun  a chance  to  break  through  them  could 
scarcely  be  employed  with  a man  of  James  Pennant’s 
stamp.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  she  concluded,  but 
to  go  her  own  way  and  let  him  go  his.  That,  to  all 
appearance,  was  what  he  desired. 

Her  owm  way  led  her,  one  afternoon,  to  Chesham 
Place — not  so  much  because  she  wanted  to  call  upon 
Mrs.  Carew,  as  because  she  had  received  no  request  to 
do  so  and  was  somewhat  at  a loss  to  account  for  the 
omission.  If  the  jealous  and  ridiculous  Julia  seri- 
ously believed  that  a girl  who  might  have  been  her 
daughter  was  ambitious  of  undermining  her  domestic 
felicity,  it  would  be  a kindness,  surely,  to  disabuse  her 
of  that  illusion. 

But  Mrs.  Carew,  who  was  at  home  and  disengaged, 
welcomed  her  young  friend  so  cordially  and  amicably 
that  there  was  no  pretext  for  putting  forward  sincere 
disclaimers.  The  poor  woman  was,  as  a fact,  jealous, 
and  had  fair  reason  to  be  so,  yet  in  some  of  her  vary- 
ing moods  she  felt  that  it  was  futile,  as  well  as  undig- 
nified, to  complain  of  her  husband.  If  his  errant 
fancy  had  been  arrested  for  a moment  by  Cuckoo 
Pennant,  what  did  it  matter?  His  fancy  never  was, 
never  had  been,  never  would  be  under  control,  and 
this  passing  infatuation  was,  at  all  events,  less  likely 
to  have  scandalous  consequences  than  certain  of  his 
previous  ones.  So  she  said: 

“ How  nice  of  you  to  look  me  up!  I had  been 
saying  to  myself  that  I must  not  hope  to  see  you 
again  before  Ascot,  for  I never  go  to  Epsom,  and 


210 


THE  WIDOWER. 


I have  been  feeling  too  tired  and  out  of  sorts  for 
theatres  of  late.” 

“ Is  one  supposed  only  to  utilise  one’s  friends  for 
racing  and  play-going  purposes?”  Cuckoo  asked. 

“ Oh,  if  you  are  kind  enough  to  call  me  a friend 
of  yours.  But,  really,  I have  no  friends  left  in  these 
days.  It  is  only  Harry’s  friends  who  ever  come  to 
the  house,  and  they  are — well,  they  are  not  always 
exactly  congenial.  But  let  us  talk  about  some  more 
interesting  subject.  Have  you  got  your  presenta- 
tion gown  yet?  Describe  it  to  me.” 

There  was  a good  deal  to  be  said  upon  that  sub- 
ject, and  Mrs.  Carew  appeared  to  take  a genuine, 
sympathetic  interest  in  it.  Other  subjects,  equally 
unexceptionable,  served  to  sustain  a prolonged  col- 
loquy, and  by  what  subtle  feminine  methods  of  inter- 
communication the  two  women,  whose  thoughts  all 
the  time  were  occupied  with  quite  different  matters, 
contrived  to  irritate  one  another,  it  would  be  hard  to 
explain.  But  they  did  somehow  manage  to  achieve 
this  result  and  to  make  frequent  allusions  to  the 
absent  Harry,  although  his  name  was  not  once  men- 
tioned. Through  the  medium  aforesaid,  Cuckoo 
offered  a species  of  apology,  implying  that  she  was 
really  very  sorry,  but  that  anybody  with  a grain  of 
common  sense  might  have  known  better  than  to  sus- 
pect her  of  having  laid  snares  for  an  elderly  Lothario; 
while  Mrs.  Carew  rejoined,  in  effect,  “ Pray  don’t 
disturb  yourself;  you  are  only  one  out  of  a hundred, 
and  he  will  tire  of  you  in  a few  months,  if  not  in 
a few  weeks.  It  is  not  in  the  least  on  my  own  ac- 
count that  I mind;  all  I regret  is  that  a girl  of  your 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 


211 


age  should  not  see  the  need  for  a little  more  dis- 
cretion.” 

Thus,  by  the  time  that  tea  was  carried  into  the 
room,  no  love  was  lost  between  these  ladies,  who  con- 
tinued to  exchange  smiles  and  honeyed  words.  The 
elder,  who  had  a little  the  worst  of  the  veiled  en- 
counter, was  disposed  to  blame  Miss  Pennant  as  much 
as  her  husband;  the  younger  was  of  opinion  that  if 
Harry  Carew  found  his  wife  impossible,  ample  ex- 
cuse might  be  discovered  for  him. 

The  culprit  thus  partially  exculpated  on  both 
sides  made  his  appearance  unexpectedly,  just  as 
Cuckoo  was  upon  the  point  of  departure.  For  him 
to  show  himself  in  his  wife’s  drawing-room  at  that 
hour  of  the  day  was  so  unusual  an  event  that  the  idea 
of  an  assignation  at  once  suggested  itself  to  Julia, 
who  read  confirmation  of  her  suspicions  in  the  slight 
flush  which  rose  to  her  visitor’s  cheeks.  She  drew 
in  her  lips  and  puckered  her  brow,  while  Cuckoo,  on 
her  side,  was  momentarily  embarrassed.  But  Harry, 
although  he  took  in  the  situation  at  a glance,  was 
more  tickled  than  disconcerted  by  it.  Conscious  in- 
nocence, no  doubt,  sustained  him  and  enabled  him  to 
exclaim  cheerfully: 

“ See  what  one  gets  by  coming  home  to  tea,  like  a 
good  little  man!  You  are  the  very  person  whom  I 
wanted  to  meet,  Miss  Pennant.  I have  any  amount  of 
important  racing  intelligence  to  give  you.” 

“ It  will  have  to  wait,  I am  afraid,”  answered 
Cuckoo,  “ for  my  time  is  up,  and  I must  say  good- 
bye.” 

Harry  accompanied  her  downstairs.  Good  man- 


212 


THE  WIDOWER. 


ners  rendered  it  obligatory  upon  him  to  do  as  much  as 
that,  but  nothing  compelled  him,  when  he  saw  that 
no  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door,  to  ask  whether 
she  was  walking  and  offer  to  see  her  part  of  the  way 
home. 

“ I am  only  going  to  walk  until  I meet  a hansom, 
and  I think,  all  things  considered,  you  had  better  let 
me  go  alone,”  she  answered  somewhat  dryly. 

“ That  means  that  Julia  has  been  upbraiding  you, 
I suppose.” 

Cuckoo  did  not  reply,  nor  did  she  make  any 
further  attempt  to  dissuade  him  from  putting  on  his 
hat.  They  had  walked  side  by  side  for  some  little 
distance  down  the  street  before  he  resumed: 

“ It's  really  too  ridiculous,  you  know!  I hope 
you  gave  her  to  understand  that  she  is  making  a 
gratuitous  fool  of  herself.” 

“ I dare  say  I should  have  done  that  if  she  had 
upbraided  me,  but  she  didn’t.  She  only  hinted  that 
I was  making  a fool  of  myself — or  being  made  a fool 
of,  which,  after  all,  wasn’t  very  ridiculous  of  her, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it.” 

“ Surely  it  is  ridiculous  to  imagine  that  I have  it 
in  my  povrer  to — to ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  but  she  doesn’t  see  you  with  my 
eyes,  you  must  remember.  To  her  most  likely  you 
are  still  as  youthful  and  attractive  as  you  ever 
were.” 

Harry  thought  this  remark  rather  needlessly  cruel, 
and  he  could  not  refrain  from  saying  so.  “ In  com- 
mon justice,  now,  have  I ever  tried  to  disguise  from 
you  that  I am  as  old  as  the  hills?  ” 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 


213 


“ You  told  me  the  other  day  that  you  loved  me,” 
returned  Cuckoo  uncompromisingly. 

“ It  is  my  misfortune  that  that  is  true;  but  I 
shouldn’t  have  told  you  the  truth  if  I hadn’t  known 
that  it  could  make  no  possible  difference  to  you.  I 
call  Julia  ridiculous  for  being  jealous  without  the 
shadow  of  an  excuse.” 

“ You  don’t  call  that  the  shadow  of  an  excuse?  ” 

"Well,  I’ll  call  it  the  shadow,  if  you  like;  I cer- 
tainly can’t  call  it  the  substance.  Why,  if  she  had  a 
grain  of  common  sense,  she  would  be  only  too  thank- 
ful! She  ought  to  realise  that  an  absolutely  pure  and 
disinterested  affection  is  the  one  thing  that  is  likely  to 
keep  me  straight.” 

Cuckoo,  though  she  was  not  feeling  particularly 
merry,  broke  out  into  irrepressible  laughter.  “ You 
are  very  funny  sometimes,”  she  remarked. 

“ Perhaps  I sound  so,  but  in  reality  I am  as  seri- 
ous as  possible.  Nothing  would  ever  make  a saint  of 
me;  only  I don’t  believe  I should  be  half  such  a 
sinner  as  I am — I doubt  whether  I should  be  much 
of  a sinner  at  all — if  there  were  anybody  in  the  wide 
world  who  cared  a pin  about  me.  One  goes  to  the 
deuce  because  it  is  easy  and  because  it  doesn’t  signify, 
not  because  one  wouldn’t  gladly  steer  for  paradise.” 

“ I don’t  hold  the  keys  of  paradise,”  said  Cuckoo. 

"For  me  you  do.  Your  friendship — and  it’s  un- 
derstood, of  course,  that  I don’t  dream  of  asking  you 
for  anything  more — is  just  what  may  prove  the  sal- 
vation of  me.  If  you  and  Julia  are  going  to  fall  out, 
and  if  I am  to  see  no  more  of  you — well,  then  the 
sooner  I disappear  from  the  scene  the  better.” 


214 


i 


THE  WIDOWER. 


There  was  a simplicity  about  this  egotism  which 
could  not  fail  to  reach  the  heart  of  an  unprejudiced 
sympathizer.  Moreover,  a request  so  humble  was 
both  flattering  and  consolatory  to  one  who  w^as  be- 
ginning to  feel  as  if  she  had  no  friends. 

“ At  that  rate,”  Cuckoo  presently  remarked,  “ per- 
haps we  might  strike  a bargain  for  our  mutual  bene- 
fit, for  I doubt  whether  you  can  be  much  more  in  need 
of  a kindred  spirit  than  I am.  I don’t  suppose  there 
is  much  danger  of  my  going  to  the  deuce — I should 
hardly  know  how  to  set  about  it — but  I sometimes 
wish  that  I could  disappear  from  the  scene.  I seem 
to  have  made  such  a hopeless  hash  of  my  part,  so 
far!  ” 

“ Ah,  if  we  could  only  disappear  together!  ” sighed 
the  incorrigible  Harry. 

He  had  to  say  that  sort  of  thing;  he  really  could 
not  help  it,  and  he  really  did  not  mean  it.  He  ended 
by  assuring  her  (in  response  to  expostulations)  that  he 
did  not  mean  it;  and  this  was  very  true,  although  the 
causes  of  his  insincerity  were  not  exactly  those  which 
he  alleged.  And  with  regard  to  that  suggested  com- 
pact between  them,  it  was  in  all  conscience  innocent 
enough.  They  were,  they  agreed,  a couple  of  round 
pegs  in  square  holes,  they  understood  one  another, 
but  their  respective  nearest  relations  did  not,  unfor- 
tunately, understand  them.  Nothing,  therefore, 
could  be  more  natural  or  more  harmless  than  that 
they  should  meet  from  time  to  time  and  relieve  their 
feelings  by  reciprocal  confidences.  They  proceeded 
to  exchange  confidences  now,  sitting  side  by  side  on  a 
bench  in  the  Green  Park,  whither  they  had  wandered 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 


215 


without  noticing  that  the  direct  road  from  Chesham 
Place  to  Ennismore  Gardens  does  not  lie  in  that  direc- 
tion. Cuckoo  learned  that  Julia,  although  admit- 
tedly injured  and  neglected,  knew  how  to  give  as 
good  as  .she  received  and  to  make  her  husband  wish 
he  were  dead;  Harry  was  told  how  James  Pennant 
contrived  to  be  at  one  and  the  same  time  the  best  of 
men  and  the  most  unapproachable  of  fathers.  The 
upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the  allies  became  extremely 
sorry  for  themselves  and  for  each  other. 

“ Well,”  observed  Harry,  when  at  length  Cuckoo, 
after  glancing  at  her  watch,  started  to  her  feet,  “ it’s 
a topsy-turvy  world,  and  if  I were  ten  years  younger 
and  you  were  ten  years  older — but  that’s  a forbidden 
subject!  Only  I want  to  say  just  for  this  once — I 
won’t  say  it  again — that,  if  ever  you  should  find  your- 
self really  in  a hole ” 

“ Yes  ? ” 

“ I mean  you  might — one  never  knows — be  driven 
to  desperation;  you  might  be  pestered  to  marry  a 
man  whom  you  hate,  or  something  of  that  kind — then 
you’ll  remember — won’t  you? — that  there  is  one  un- 
worthy wretch  who  asks  no  better  fate  than  to  give  up 
everything  for  your  sake.” 

Upon  that  somewhat  equivocal  profession  they 
parted.  Harry’s  meaning  could  only  be  that  he  was 
ready  at  a word  to  eclipse  all  the  scandals  of  his  pre- 
vious record;  but  it  did  not  greatly  signify  what  he 
meant,  seeing  that  the  contingency  to  which  he  dimly 
alluded  could  by  no  possibility  arise.  Whatever  her 
father’s  defects  might  be,  Cuckoo  was  well  aware  that 
she  would  never  be  urged  by  him  to  marry  against 


216 


THE  WIDOWER. 


her  inclinations,  nor  would  her  affection  for  her  only 
friend  ever  prompt  her  to  place  herself  under  his  sole 
protection.  Still  she  did  almost  wish  that  he  were 
a bachelor  and  that  they  were  more  nearly  of  an  age. 
“ I couldn’t  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  even  then,” 
she  reflected,  “ but  his  having  fallen  in  love  with  me 
would  have  answered  all  the  purpose,  I dare  say.” 

On  reaching  home  she  encountered  the  master  of 
the  house,  who  was  in  the  act  of  letting  himself  in 
with  his  latchkey,  and  who  remarked,  just  by  way  of 
saying  something,  “ You  look  very  tired.  What  have 
you  been  doing?  ” 

Cuckoo  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  stated 
rather  brusquely  that  she  was  not  a bit  tired.  “ You 
look  tired,”  she  added.  “ That  is  chronic  and  un- 
avoidable just  now,  though,  I suppose.” 

“ Well,  yes;  for  some  days  to  come  I must  expect 
to  be  a good  deal  hurried  and  worried.” 

“Des  gouts  et  des  couleurs!”  remarked  Cuckoo, 
with  a jerk  of  her  shoulders.  “ I shouldn’t  have 
thought  it  was  worth  while  myself;  but  then  I 
couldn’t  imagine  anybody  thinking  politics  worth 
while.” 

James  went  into  his  study,  threw  himself  down  in 
his  chair  and  stretched  out  his  weary  limbs.  “ Per- 
haps politics  are  not  worth  while;  perhaps  nothing  in 
life  is  worth  while,”  he  said  to  himself  despondently; 
for,  indeed,  he  did  not  care  much  about  anything  in 
life,  now  that  Cuckoo  and  he  were  so  hopelessly  alien- 
ated from  one  another. 

He  began  to  open  and  read  his  letters,  one  of 
which  contained  the  formal  offer  that  he  had  been 


CUCKOO  GOES  HER  OWN  WAY. 


217 


led  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  expect — an  offer  of  an 
important  department  and  a place  in  the  new  Cabi- 
net. He  perused  it  listlessly  and  tossed  it  aside;  but 
the  next  communication  that  he  examined  caused  him 
to  assume  an  erect  attitude,  draw  in  his  breath 
quickly,  and  turn  pale. 

For  this,  though  written  in  no  unfriendly  spirit, 
was  a most  disagreeable,  as  well  as  a wholly  unan- 
ticipated one.  It  emanated  from  a certain  court 
functionary  of  his  acquaintance,  who  wrote  privately 
and  confidentially  to  say  that  he  feared  there  was 
going  to  be  a difficulty  about  Miss  Pennant’s  pres- 
entation. “ You  will  probably  receive  some  official 
intimation  upon  the  subject  from  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain’s office;  but  I thought  I would  just  drop  you  a 
line,  so  that  you  may  at  once,  if  you  think  fit,  contra- 
dict unpleasant  rumours.  It  is  asserted  (I  would 
rather  not  say  upon  what  authority,  and  of  course  I 
don’t  know  with  how  much  or  how  little  truth)  that 
Miss  Pennant  is  not  really  your  daughter  at  all,  but  a 
French  girl,  adopted  by  you  in  her  infancy.  I need 
not  podnt  out  to  you  that,  although  this  might  not 
prove  a bar  to  her  being  received,  her  presentation, 
under  a false  name,  would  never  be  allowed  to  take 
place,  and  I am  sure  you  would  prefer  to  be  told 
without  further  delay  of  a report  which,  I am  afraid, 
is  sure  to  spread,  unless  nipped  in  the  bud.” 

The  victim  of  this  thunderbolt  out  of  a clear  sky 
was  for  some  moments  completely  bewildered.  Who 
on  earth  could  have  discovered  and  revealed  a secret 
so  many  years  old  and  hitherto  so  scrupulously  kept? 
But,  being  a quick-witted  man,  he  was  soon  able  to 


218 


THE  WIDOWER. 


answer  his  own  query.  “ Lady  Rochdale,  instructed 
by  Budgett,”  he  muttered.  “ Where  and  how  Budg- 
ett  obtained  her  information  one  doesn’t  see — and  it 
doesn't  matter.  The  question  is,  what  is  to  be 
done?  ” 

He  took  two  or  three  rapid  turns  up  and  down  the 
room  and  then  rang  the  bell.  “ Tell  Miss  Pennant 
not  to  wait  dinner  for  me;  I find  that  I am  obliged  to 
go  out,”  he  said  to  the  butler,  who  presently  appeared, 
u and  I want  a hansom  at  once.” 

The  hour  was  rather  a late  one  for  paying  visits, 
but  there  was  no  need  to  stand  upon  ceremony  with 
Jane  Wardlaw,  and  her  advice  was  worth  having,  even 
at  the  price  which  must  necessarily  be  paid  for  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 

“ Her  ladyship  is  at  home,  sir,”  the  Berkeley 
Square  butler  said  when  James  arrived  at  his  destina- 
tion; “ but  I believe  she  has  gone  to  dress  for  dinner. 
Could  I send  any  message  to  her,  sir?” 

This  considerate  offer  was  suggested  by  the  visible 
eagerness  of  the  Right  Honourable  gentleman,  who 
might  reasonably  be  supposed  to  have  important  po- 
litical intelligence  to  impart,  and  who  answered: 

“ Yes;  ask  her  whether  she  can  spare  me  a quar- 
ter of  an  hour.  Say  that  I want  to  see  her  rather 
particularly.” 

James  was  sure  that,  if  his  cousin  were  dining  out, 
she  would  not  mind  keeping  her  entertainers  waiting 
a quarter  of  an  hour,  or  even  half  an  hour,  in  order 
to  oblige  him,  and  that  his  confidence  in  her  was  not 
misplaced  he  was  speedily  made  aware.  No  sooner 
had  he  been  conducted  to  her  boudoir  than  she  swept 
in,  arrayed  in  a hastily  donned  tea-gown,  to  ask  ex- 
pectantly: “Well? — is  it  the  Home  Office?” 

“ They  give  me  my  choice  of  India  or  the  Colo- 
nies,” replied  James,  “ but ” 

“But  what?  That  implies  Cabinet  rank,  doesn’t 
it?” 


15 


219 


220 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ Oh,  yes;  but ” 

“ You  will  drive  me  crazy  with  your  ‘ huts  ’ and 
your  doleful  countenance!  Surely  you  can’t  be  going 
to  say  that  that  isn’t  good  enough!  ” 

“ Of  course  it  is  good  enough,  and  of  course  I 
accept  with  gratitude;  but — please  allow  me  to  say 
‘ but  ’ once  more  and  to  end  my  sentence — I didn’t 
come  here  at  this  unwarrantable  hour  to  make  an 
announcement  which  you  will  read  in  to-morrow 
morning’s  papers.  I wish  for  you  advice  with  regard 
to  another  and  a much  more  unpleasant  matter.” 

“ Cuckoo  has  been  getting  into  trouble!  ” ex- 
claimed Lady  Wardlaw,  apprehensively. 

“ She  is  perhaps  going  to  get  into  trouble — 
through  no  fault  of  her  own.  I must  tell  you  some- 
thing about  her  which  will  certainly  astonish  you, 
and  which  I dare  say  I ought  to  have  told  you  long 
ago.  In  how  brief  a space  of  time,  I wonder,  can 
you  be  astonished,  recover  your  mental  balance,  and 
grant  useful  counsel  to  a perplexed  man?  Have  you 
people  dining  here,  or  are  you  going  out  to  dinner?  ” 

“ Neither,”  answered  Lady  Wardlaw,  after  a quick 
scrutiny  of  her  visitor’s  features.  “ We  were  going 
out,  but  I find  that  I am  too  bad  with  neuralgia  to 
stir,  and  I will  write  at  once  to  say  so.” 

She  hastily  scribbled  a few  lines,  rang  the  bell  and 
despatched  her  note,  together  with  a message  to  Sir 
William  that  he  need  not  hurry,  as  dinner  would  be 
at  home,  after  all,  and  not  before  nine  o’clock. 

“ Now,  James,”  said  she,  settling  herself  in  an 
easy-chair,  “ you  can  proceed  at  your  leisure.  I know 
by  the  look  of  you  that  I am  about  to  hear  something 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


221 


horrid,  and  I know  by  experience  that  you  won’t  put 
me  out  of  my  pain  in  a few  words.” 

“ I can  tell  you  the  worst  of  it  in  a very  few 
words,”  answered  James.  “ The  worst  of  it  is  simply 
this:  Cuckoo  is  not  my  child!  ” 

“ Good  gracious!  ” 

“ I thought  you  would  be  horrified.  No,  she 
hasn’t  a drop  of  Pennant  blood  in  her  veins.  Poor 
Ada,  who,  as  you  know,  never  had  any  children  of 
her  own ” 

“ Oh,  come!  this  isn’t  quite  so  awful.  I thought, 
of  course,  you  meant  that  she  was  Ada’s  child,  but  not 
yours.” 

James,  despite  his  distress,  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing. “ You  are  in  such  a desperate  hurry  to  jump 
to  conclusions,  Jane,  that  you  overlook  the  inherent 
improbability  of  my  making  such  a confession  as  that. 
What  I was  going  to  say  was  that  my  wife,  being 
childless  and  lonely,  took  it  strongly  into  her  head 
to  adopt  an  orphan  out  of  a convent  in  the  south  of 
France.  I consented  to  her  doing  so,  not  very  wil- 
lingly, still  I did  consent,  and  I had  reasons  which 
at  the  time  seemed  to  me  to  be  good  ones.  Then, 
as  might  perhaps  have  been  anticipated,  she  set 
her  heart  upon  making  the  baby  her  own  in  every 
sense  of  the  term,  and  to  that  also,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, I consented.  I was  a fool,  no  doubt.” 

“ I think  you  were,”  said  Lady  Wardlaw. 

“ Yes;  but  there  appeared  to  be  little  or  no  risk  of 
future  complications.  The  circumstances  were  ex- 
ceptionally favourable;  we  were  far  away  from  kith 
and  kin,  we  happened  to  be  changing  our  servants 


222 


THE  WIDOWER. 


as  well  as  our  temporary  abode;  nobody  was  at  all 
likely  to  discover  the  truth,  nor  could  anybody  be 
injured  by  it  if  it  were  discovered.” 

“ Except,  perhaps,  the  girl  herself.” 

“ Ah,  exactly! — you  put  your  finger  upon  the 
weak  spot  there.  Yet  the  difficulty  which  has  actu- 
ally arisen  would  have  sounded  ridiculously  far- 
fetched and  fantastic  then,  if  one  had  thought  of  it 
and  mentioned  it.  Who  could  foresee  that  the  girl 
would  have  to  be  presented  some  fine  day,  and  that 
facts  which  had  been  successfully  concealed  from  her 
babyhood  would  transpire  just  in  time  to  scandalise 
the  Lord  Chamberlain?” 

“ Oh,  that’s  it,  is  it?  How  dreadfully  unfortu- 
nate! How  could  you  be  so  foolish  as  to  allow  the 
facts  to  transpire?” 

J ames  explained.  An  enemy  had  done  this  thing. 
He  related  the  story  of  Budgett’s  dismissal  and  sub- 
sequent engagement  by  Lady  Rochdale,  adding  that 
there  could  be  very  small  doubt,  in  his  opinion,  as  to 
who  had  given  information.  “ By  what  means  she 
obtained  her  information  I can’t  imagine,  but  she 
threatened  before  she  left  to  reveal  something  which 
would  make  me  regret  having  parted  with  her,  and 
this  is  evidently  her  way  of  keeping  her  word.” 

Lady  Wardlaw  shook  her  head  and  observed  that 
it  was  rather  serious.  “ You  have  documents,  I pre- 
sume, which  you  can  produce,  if  called  upon.” 

“ Oh,  of  course.” 

“ Because  otherwise,  I mean,  one  doesn’t  know 
what  reports  might  not  get  about.  Well,  if  I were 
you,  1 should  go  straight  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


223 


with  my  documents  and  conceal  nothing  from  him. 
He  may  make  a fuss,  and,  considering  that  you  have 
just  kicked  him  out  of  office,  most  likely  he  will;  still 
one  has  heard  of  similar  cases,  and  the  main  thing, 
after  all,  is  that  the  presentation  should  not  be  de- 
ferred.” 

“ I was  thinking,”  answered  J ames,  “ that  the 
main  thing  was  rather  that  it  should.  Excuses  can 
easily  be  found  for  a postponement,  and  there  will 
soon  be  a new  Lord  Chamberlain,  who  at  least  will 
belong  to  our  party.  For  all  practical  purposes. 
Cuckoo  is  my  daughter;  there  is  no  reason  that  I 
know'  of  why  she  should  not  be  publicly  called  my 
daughter,  or  why  a confidential  admission  of  the  truth 
should  not  be  treated  as  confidential.” 

“ There  is  still  less  reason,  it  seems  to  me,  why  she 
should  not  be  publicly  acknowledged  to  be  your 
adopted  daughter.  Her  mother’s  people  are  all  right, 
you  say,  and  her  father  is  dead  and  buried;  so  she 
won’t  be  in  any  way  disgraced.  It  is  a case  for  can- 
didly announcing  the  actual  facts,  and  I can’t  under- 
stand why  you  didn’t  announce  them  from  the  first.” 

“ I despair  of  making  you  understand.  All  I can 
say  is  that  I feel  pledged  to  secrecy.  I made  cer- 
tain promises  to  my  wife,  which  must  be  kept  if  I can 
possibly  keep  them.  Then,  too — but  that  you  cer- 
tainly wouldn’t  understand,  so  we’ll  leave  it  alone. 
The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Jane,  that  rightly  or 
wrongly,  I would  give  a large  sum  of  money  to  keep 
things  dark.  The  question  is,  can  they  be  kept 
dark?  ” 

“ Obviously  not.  That  malignant  Eochdale 


224 


THE  WIDOWER. 


woman  would  want  a much  larger  sum  than  you 
could  offer  her  as  the  price  of  holding  her  tongue. 
Besides,  it  is  too  late;  she  has  probably  told  scores  of 
people  all  she  knows,  and  a good  deal  that  she  doesn’t, 
by  this  time.” 

In  all  probability  she  had.  James,  stroking  his 
chin  meditatively,  could  not  but  admit  that;  and  yet 
what  proofs  could  Lady  Rochdale  possess?  “ I am 
not  quite  prepared  to  throw  up  the  sponge,”  he  said. 

Lady  Wardlaw  was  impatiently  pointing  out  to 
him  that  he  really  had  no  alternative  when  Sir 
William  came  in,  rather  cross,  to  ask  whether  there 
was  any  objection  to  his  dining  at  his  club.  “ One 
is  willing  to  obey  orders  to  the  extent  of  breaking  an 
engagement,  but  one  would  a little  rather  not  be  fed 
upon  warmed-up  scraps,”  he  plaintively  explained. 

“ There  is  plenty  of  fresh  food  in  the  house,  and 
James  is  going  to  stay  and  dine  with  us,”  answered 
his  wife.  “ No,  I can’t  let  you  go  out  this  evening; 
you  are  wanted  at  home.  You  might  consult  a worse 
person  than  William,”  she  added,  turning  to  her 
cousin;  u nobody  has  ever  accused  him  of  being  want- 
ing in  common  sense  or  knowledge  of  the  world.  May 
I tell  him  what  is  the  matter?  ” 

So  Sir  William  was  consulted,  and,  not  a little  to 
Lady  Wardlaw’s  surprise,  he  did  not  at  once  adopt 
her  view  of  the  situation. 

“ I see,”  said  he,  nodding.  “ James  wishes-1 — and 
it  is  just  what  I should  wish  myself  in  his  place — to 
spare  the  poor  child  what,  when  all  is  said,  she  must 
feel  to  be  a shock  and  a sort  of  humiliation.  The 
thing  isn’t  absolutely  unworkable,  you  know.  I don’t 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


225 


venture  to  predict  that  we  shall  succeed;  but,  with 
time  on  our  side,  and  the  change  of  ministry  and  all, 
we  may.  It  is  worth  trying,  anyhow.  Lady  Roch- 
dale, who  has  listened  to  the  gossip  of  a discharged 
servant,  can’t  make  out  a very  strong  case,  and  James 
isn’t  bound  to  reply  to  her.  The  whole  difficulty, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  resolves  itself  into 
squaring  the  court  officials,  and  I should  think  that 
their  consciences  might  be  found  elastic  enough  to 
oblige  a Cabinet  minister.” 

“ Ah,  but  that  isn’t  the  whole  difficulty,”  objected 
Lady  Wardlaw.  “ Supposing — though  I don’t  for 
one  moment  suppose  it — we  do  contrive  to  get  Cuckoo 
presented  as  James’s  daughter,  we  shall  still  have  to 
reckon  with  rumours  which  are  certain,  sooner  or 
later,  to  reach  her  ears,  and  what  kind  of  a figure  shall 
we  cut  when  she  asks  us  whether  they  are  true  or 
false?  My  belief  is  that  prompt  honesty  will  be  our 
best  policy.” 

“ Rumours  of  a most  startling  character  are  con- 
stantly circulated  about  persons  who  are  the  very  last 
to  hear  of  them,”  observed  Sir  William.  “We  are 
embarking  upon  a rather  forlorn  hope,  if  you  like; 
still  there  is  just  a hope.” 

“Exactly  so,”  agreed  James;  “you  understand 
my  point  of  view,  William,  though  Jane  doesn’t.  It 
is  an  illogical  point  of  view,  and  altogether  opposed  to 
the  precepts  and  practice  of  my  life;  but  I can’t  help 
that.  I made  an  initial  mistake,  knowing  pretty  well 
that  it  was  a mistake,  and  any  unpleasant  results  that 
may  ensue  ought,  I feel,  to  fall  upon  me,  not  upon 
Cuckoo.” 


226 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ That,”  remarked  Lady  Wardlaw,  “ sounds  all 
very  fine;  only  it  appears  that  there  will  either  he 
no  unpleasant  results  or  else — which  is  ever  so  much 
more  probable — that  you  will  have  to  go  shares  in 
them.  And  don’t  you  think  that  the  unpleasantness 
would  be  lessened  for  you  if  you  were  to  make  a clean 
breast  of  it,  instead  of  waiting  to  be  found  out?  ” 

However,  she  proved  what  a kind-hearted  woman 
she  was  by  giving  in,  notwithstanding  her  entirely 
justifiable  conviction  that  she  was  in  the  right.  It 
was  decided  that  Cuckoo  should  be  told,  upon  no 
matter  what  plea — the  confusion  incident  upon  a 
change  of  ministry  would  serve  as  well  as  another — 
that  she  must  wait  a few  weeks  longer  for  the  privi- 
lege of  doing  obeisance  to  her  sovereign,  and  the 
amiable  conspirators  hoped  that,  in  the  meantime, 
nobody  would  have  quite  such  atrociously  bad  taste  as 
to  hint  to  her  that  a mystery  hung  over  her  parentage. 
Lady  Wardlaw’s  cook  showed  herself  equal  to  the 
sudden  demand  made  upon  her;  so  that  before  his 
guest  left  him  Sir  William  was  in  an  excellent  and 
sanguine  humour. 

“ Cheer  up,  old  man,”  said  he;  “we’ll  pull  through 
by  hook  or  by  crook.  I don’t  pretend  to  be  influ- 
ential myself,  but  Jane  is,  and  so,  after  a fashion,  are 
you.  Bless  your  soul!  much  queerer  stories  than  this 
lie  comfortably  buried  in  hundreds  of  graves  and 
will  never  be  heard  of  again.” 

No  doubt  that  is  so;  yet  it  is  not  easy  for  a rigidly 
honourable  man  to  cheer  up  under  the  consciousness 
that  he  is  about  to  act  lies,  and  even,  perchance,  to 
tell  them.  James  returned  home,  a prey  to  sad  fore- 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


227 


bodings  and  misgivings,  which  were  partially  fulfilled 
as  soon  as  he  had  taken  his  first  step  on  the  path  of 
concerted  dissimulation.  Cuckoo,  who  had  risen 
from  the  piano  as  he  entered,  and  who  had  listened  to 
what  he  had  to  say  with  slightly  raised  eyebrows, 
naturally  wanted  to  know  what  connection  there 
could  be  between  her  presentation  at  Court  and  the 
approaching  retirement  of  Liberal  officials. 

“ Personally,”  she  declared,  “ I don’t  care  a straw 
whether  the  ceremony  takes  place  now  or  next  month, 
and  I shouldn’t  break  my  heart  if  it  never  took  place 
at  all;  but  if  the  other  debutantes  are  to  make  their 
courtesys,  why  shouldn’t  I make  mine?” 

Evidently  she  smelt  a rat — it  would  have  been 
rather  odd  if  she  had  not,  considering  the  halting  and 
embarrassed  style  in  which  James’s  explanation  had 
been  put  forward,  and  his  evasive  reply  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  so  busy,  and  that  the  Wardlaws  also  were 
rather  bus}q  and  that  a postponement  had  been 
thought  desirable  on  several  grounds,  was  scarcely  of 
a nature  to  allay  nascent  suspicions. 

Cuckoo  shrugged  her  shoulders,  remarked  that  it 
was  really  all  one  to  her,  and  went  back  to  the  piano. 
She  perceived,  of  course,  that  a hitch  had  somehow 
occurred;  but  her  curiosity  was  not  greatly  excited 
about  the  matter.  What  did  hurt  her  a little  was  the 
haste  and  alacrity  with  which  her  father  quitted  the 
room.  “ He  hates  the  very  sight  of  me  now,”  she 
thought  to  herself.  “ I believe  he  only  went  out  to 
dinner  because  he  couldn’t  face  the  prospect  of  a soli- 
tary evening  with  me.” 

The  following  morning’s  post  brought  her  an  ur- 


228 


THE  WIDOWER. 


gent  and  affectionately  worded  invitation  to  luncheon 
from  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant.  “ Do  come,  if 
you  have  no  other  engagement.  It  isn’t  a party,  but 
the  girls  would  like  to  see  you,  and  I myself  have 
things  to  say  which  it  would  take  too  long  to  write 
about.  Fitz  has  promised  to  look  in  upon  us,  pre- 
paratory to  attending  some  garden  party  or  other  for 
which  the  Rochdales  have  booked  him.  If  you  can’t 
possibly  come,  send  me  a wire  and  I will  try  to 
find  my  way  to  Ennismore  Gardens  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon;  but  I hope  you  won’t  disappoint 
ns.” 

It  did  not.  Cuckoo  thought,  require  a person  of 
exceptionally  bright  intelligence  to  read  between  the 
lines  of  that  ingenuous  missive.  Fitzroy,  of  course, 
had  engaged  himself  to  Lady  Elizabeth,  and  his  fond 
mother  was  eager  to  tell  everybody  the  good  news. 
Some  of  Fitzroy’s  friends  and  well-wishers  might,  to 
be  sure,  doubt  whether  the  news  that  he  was  bent 
upon  allying  himself  for  life  with  an  affected  little 
goose  was  altogether  good;  hut  they  would  have  to 
congratulate  him  all  the  same,  and  the  sooner  that 
obligatory  piece  of  hypocrisy  was  over  and  done  with 
the  better.  So  the  invitation  was  accepted  and  the 
appointment  duly  kept. 

Actual  congratulations  would,  however,  be  pre- 
mature, it  appeared.  Gwen  and  Ella,  who  embraced 
Cuckoo  a tour  de  bras  on  her  arrival,  informed  her,  in 
answer  to  her  blunt  question,  that  nothing  was  as 
yet  announced  or  even  settled.  Something,  they 
quite  hoped  and  believed,  would  be  announced  very 
shortly,  hut  for  the  present  all  they  knew  was  that 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


229 


Lord  and  Lady  Rochdale,  like  Barkis,  were  willing. 
They  had  signified  as  much,  and  very  nice  it  was  of 
them,  these  artless  maidens  opined,  to  have  done  so, 
considering  that  their  daughter  might  obviously  make 
a far  more  distinguished  match.  Not  that  dear  Fitz 
was  not  really  good  enough  for  anybody,  only,  as  he 
had  neither  title  nor  wealth,  his  diffidence  was  as 
natural  as  it  was  becoming. 

“ Let  him  take  courage,”  said  Cuckoo  dryly;  “ he 
is  in  no  danger  of  being  refused — c’est  moi  qui  vous 
en  reponds ! ” 

He  himself  certainly  did  not  seem  to  be  appre- 
hensive of  failure.  He  made  his  appearance  pres- 
ently in  excellent  spirits,  and  he  was  not  so  preoccu- 
pied with  his  own  affairs  during  luncheon  but  that 
he  was  able  to  give  evidence  of  a kindly  interest  in 
those  of  his  cousin,  who  sat  beside  him.  He  was  sur- 
prised and  concerned  to  hear  that  she  was  not,  after 
all,  to  be  presented  at  the  next  Drawing-room;  he 
wanted  to  know  why  that  indispensable  ceremony  had 
been  put  off,  and  ventured  to  hope  (in  a whisper)  that 
she  had  not  incurred  the  displeasure  of  Lady  Ward- 
law  or  Uncle  James. 

“ I assure  you,”  was  the  reply  vouchsafed  to  him, 
“that  I have  not  been  put  into  the  corner  for  mis- 
conduct; but  even  if  I had,  your  prospects  would 
scarcely  be  imperilled.  Pennants  and  Tufnells  are 
much  the  same  thing  as  Montagues  and  Capulets  now; 
so,  as  you  belong  to  the  opposite  faction,  in  spite  of 
your  name,  you  need  not  distress  yourself  about  the 
likes  of  me.” 

“ I don’t  belong  to  any  faction,”  Fitzroy  de- 


230 


THE  WIDOWER. 


clared,  “ and  Fm  sure  I don’t  know  what  I have  done 
to  deserve  that  sort  of  accusation.” 

He  was  not  enlightened;  nor,  it  might  be  pre- 
sumed, was  he  very  eager  for  enlightenment,  since  he 
did  not  persevere  with  the  subject.  Cuckoo  saw  no 
more  of  him  after  luncheon;  immediately  upon  the 
conclusion  of  which  meal  she  was  led  away  by  her 
aunt  into  a little  dark  library,  where  coffee  was 
served  to  them  all  by  themselves. 

“ I wanted  to  speak  to  you  alone,  my  dear,”  began 
Mrs.  Pennant,  wdiose  jolly  countenance  had  assumed 
an  expression  of  unaccustomed  gravity,  u be- 
cause  ” 

“ Oh,  I know!  ” interrupted  Cuckoo.  “ There  is 
going  to  be  a wedding  in  the  family,  and  you  hope  it 
won’t  bring  about  family  dissensions.  You  may 
make  your  mind  quite  easy  on  that  score;  if  I had 
any  influence  with  my  father — which  I haven’t — 
there  would  be  no  need  for  me  to  use  it.  Lord  and 
Lady  Rochdale  are  a great  deal  more  likely  to  quarrel 
with  him  than  he  is  to  quarrel  with  them.” 

“ I dare  say  they  are;  and  if  there  must  be  a 
quarrel — as  Lady  Rochdale  seems  to  think  that  there 
must — neither  you  nor  I can  help  it.  What  I have 
to  tell  you  is  something  which  I have  heard  from  her 
and  wfliich,  I am  very  much  afraid,  is  true.  True  or 
untrue,  I don’t  think  the  story  ought  to  be  con- 
cealed from  you,  and  what’s  more,  I don’t  think  it 
can  be.” 

This  exordium  did  not  in  the  least  prepare  Cuckoo 
for  the  statement  which  followed.  She  listened  to  it 
in  chilled,  awe-struck  silence,  convinced,  without 


COUNCILS  AND  COUNSELS. 


231 


proof  or  confirmation,  of  its  accuracy,  and  feeling 
instinctively  that  it  explained  many  things  hitherto 
obscure  to  her.  The  just,  severe,  unsympathetic 
father,  who  was  not  really  her  father,  became  revealed 
to  her  as  one  upon  whom  a most  uncongenial  task  had 
been  imposed,  and  who  had  discharged  that  task  from 
a mere  sense  of  duty,  unsustained  therein  by  anything 
in  the  shape  of  acquired  paternal  affection.  It  also 
struck  her  that  his  notions  of  what  constituted  duty 
were  of  a very  one-sided  character.  But  to  her  in- 
formant she  only  remarked: 

“ Well,  if  I have  been  sailing  under  false  colours 
all  this  time,  I have  done  it  ignorantly,  and  I don’t 
see  what  right  Lady  Rochdale  or  anybody  else  has  to 
condemn  me.” 

“ My  dear  girl,  nobody  dreams  for  a moment  of 
condemning  you,”  she  was  assured;  “ only  it  does, 
unfortunately — there  is  no  help  for  that,  I am  afraid 
— make  a difference.  Of  course  the  whole  story  may 
be  a fable,  and  I sincerely  hope  it  is;  but,  if  so,  James 
ought  to  lose  no  time  in  contradicting  it,  because, 
you  see ” 

“ Because  Lady  Rochdale  hasn’t  lost  any  time  in 
spreading  it  abroad?” 

“ I don’t  know  that  she  has  spread  it  abroad;  she 
professed  to  speak  to  me  in  confidence.  But  natu- 
rally she  does  not  love  J ames,  and  she  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  spare  him.  In  short,  I think  your  best 
course  will  be  to  let  him  know  at  once  what  is  being 
said.” 

“ Why,”  inquired  Cuckoo,  “ haven’t  you  done  that 
yourself?  ” 


232 


THE  WIDOWER. 


The  big,  red-faced  woman  held  up  a pair  of  depre- 
cating hands.  “ Because  I funked  it!  ” she  honestly 
avowed.  “ I have  never  been  accounted  a coward, 
but  the  truth  is  that  that  man  strikes  terror  into  my 
craven  soul.  If  I had  sent  for  him  or  had  gone  to 
him,  he  would  certainly  have  recommended  me,  in 
the  most  courteous  terms,  to  mind  my  own  business. 
Now,  he  can’t  very  well  take  up  that  tone  with  you, 
for  he  must  admit  that  this  is  your  business.” 

“ I suppose  he  must,”  Cuckoo  agreed.  “ I will 
ask  him,  then,  to  contradict  the  report  and  to  bring 
an  action  for  slander  against  Lady  Rochdale — if  he 
can.  If  he  can’t ” 

“ Well,  supposing  that  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  there  is  no  law  against  the  adoption  of  or- 
phans,” said  Mrs.  Pennant  consolingly. 

“ But  there  is  a social  law,  perhaps,  against  their 
being  given  names  which  they  have  no  right  to  use. 
I quite  understand,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I won’t 
continue  to  be  a fraud  a minute  longer  that  I can 
help.” 

Cuckoo  left  the  house  without  saying  good-bye  to 
her  so-called  cousins  or  making  much  response  to  the 
affectionate  condolences  of  her  so-called  aunt.  She 
thought  to  herself,  as  she  drove  homeward,  that  the 
chances  were  rather  against  her  ever  seeing  any  of 
them  again. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 

Ladies  who  speak  with  all  the  authority  that  be- 
longs to  experience,  and  not  without  some  show  of 
reason,  are  wont  to  smile  at  the  ingrained  masculine 
belief  that  nothing  except  flattery  really  succeeds  with 
their  charming  sex,  and  to  maintain  that  our  vanity 
is  at  least  equal  to  theirs,  while  we  are  far  more  easier 
taken  in  than  they.  What  they  are  not  quite  so  will- 
ing to  allow  is  that  these  facts  (supposing  them,  for 
the  sake  of  argument,  to  be  facts)  only  prove  our 
greater  integrity  and  simplicity;  although — seeing 
that  they  are  not,  as  a rule,  ambitious  of  being  con- 
sidered simple  and  innocent — they  ought  not  to 
grudge  us  such  a modest  pretension. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Fitzroy  Pennant  entertained 
much  too  humble  an  opinion  of  his  own  attractions, 
physical  and  other,  to  imagine  for  one  moment  that 
the  many  kindnesses  of  which  he  had  been  the  re- 
cipient at  the  hands  of  Lady  Rochdale  and  her  fair 
daughter  could  be  accounted  for  by  a mere  vulgar 
desire  on  their  part  to  capture  him.  With  his  small 
fortune  in  hand,  and  his  respectable,  but  by  no  means 
magnificent,  fortune  in  the  bush,  he  was  obviously  no 
great  catch;  nor  was  it  less  obvious  (by  his  way  of 

233 


234 


THE  WIDOWER. 


thinking)  that  Lady  Elizabeth  might  aspire  to  an  in- 
finitely higher  social  position  than  he  could  offer  her. 
That  in  reality  he  was  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  that 
occupants  of  more  lofty  social  positions  had  neglected, 
so  far,  to  place  themselves  in  rivalry  with  him,  and 
that  half  a loaf  is  always  preferable  to  no  bread — these 
were  reflections  for  lookers-on,  not  for  principals; 
the  young  Guardsman  only  knew  that  Lady  Elizabeth 
was  as  amiable  as  she  was  pretty,  that  her  mother 
was  “ not  a bad  old  sort  in  her  way,”  and  that  both  of 
them  had  been  as  nice  as  possible  to  him.  He  had 
not,  through  many  weeks  of  intimacy,  been  quite 
positive  that  he  was  in  love  with  the  younger  lady, 
greatly  though  he  liked  and  admired  her;  but  now  he 
began  to  feel  pretty  well  free  of  doubt  upon  that 
point.  If  he  was  not  in  love  with  her  why  did  he 
persistently  run  after  her  wherever  she  went?  His 
mother  had  put  that  pertinent  question  to  him, 
and  he  had  found  himself  unprepared  with  any  an- 
swer, save  the  one  anxiously  invited.  Well,  a man  is 
glad,  of  course,  to  be  able  to  please  his  family  while 
at  the  same  time  pleasing  himself:  it  is  not,  after  all, 
every  day  that  duty,  inclination,  prudence,  and 
worldly  wisdom  can  be  harnessed  into  one  obedient 
team. 

It  was  in  a very  fairly  complacent  mood,  therefore, 
that  Fitzroy,  after  a longish  chat  with  Gwen  and  Ella 
and  a few  pregnant  parting  words  from  Mrs.  Pen- 
nant, set  forth  from  the  domestic  luncheon  mentioned 
in  the  last  chapter  to  keep  his  appointment.  He  was 
going  to  be  conducted  by  Lady  Rochdale  to  a garden 
party,  given  by  a certain  great  lady  whose  historic 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 


235 


mansion  was  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  London;  he 
was  going  to  propose  to  Lady  Elizabeth  that  very 
afternoon — he  had  even  been  given  to  understand 
that  it  would  be  expected  of  him  to  do  so — and  he  was 
going  to  be  accepted.  This  also  he  had  been  given  to 
understand,  and  he  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  hoping 
that  the  prophecy  was  not  over  bold.  For  what  rea- 
son he  should,  under  such  agreeable  circumstances, 
have  become  aware  of  an  odd  longing  to  take  to  his 
heels  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  such  sensa- 
tions are  not  altogether  without  precedent;  perhaps 
the  last  moment  before  riding  at  an  unshirkable  fence 
or  taking  a header  off  a very  high  bank  is  apt,  for  a 
good  many  of  us,  to  be  associated  with  ignoble  tempta- 
tions. 

It  is  needless,  however,  to  add  that  we  never  think 
of  yielding  to  them;  nor  did  Fitzroy,  when  once  he 
was  seated  in  Lady  Rochdale’s  yellow  barouche,  with 
his  back  to  the  horses,  wish  himself  elsewhere.  He 
was  really  in  a very  pleasant  place,  driving  through 
sunny  London  streets,  with  a couple  of  exquisitely 
dressed  ladies  facing  him,  and  the  pedestrians  whose 
attention  was  attracted  by  a somewhat  showy  equi- 
page no  doubt  set  him  down  for  the  lucky  dog  that  he 
was.  Lady  Rochdale  was  in  one  of  her  most  gracious 
tempers;  Lady  Elizabeth,  always  pretty  and  always 
smiling,  looked  particularly  well  in  a white  costume 
with  pale  blue  facings  and  glittering  jewelled  em- 
broideries. Her  delicate  complexion  assumed  a faint, 
becoming  tinge  of  pink  when  her  opposite  neighbour 
bent  forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  to  speak 

in  a low  voice  to  her;  if  all  this  was  not  enough  to  sat- 
16 


236 


THE  WIDOWER. 


isfy  an  expectant  suitor,  he  must  indeed  have  been 
difficult  to  please. 

Hosts  of  smart  and  distinguished  people  were  con- 
gregated upon  the  smooth,  shady  lawn  where  our 
young  man  was  presently  deposited,  and  which,  after 
paying  his  respects  to  his  hostess,  he  made  haste  to 
quit.  He  quitted  it,  in  point  of  fact,  by  preconcerted 
arrangement  with  his  white  and  blue  companion,  who 
knew  the  grounds  better  than  he  did,  and  who  had 
kindly  promised,  on  the  way  down,  to  show  him  some 
of  their  more  secluded  beauties. 

“ Isn’t  it  lovely!  ” she  exclaimed,  when  they  had 
strolled  away  from  the  crowd  and  the  tents  and  the 
braying  band,  into  an  Italian  garden,  surrounded  by 
tall  hedges  of  clipped  yew,  where  they  were  as  com- 
pletely alone  as  if  the  whole  of  the  gay  world  had  not 
been  within  a stone’s  throw  of  them.  “ And  to  think 
that  these  paths  and  borders  would  realise  a large 
fortune  if  they  were  sold  and  divided  up  into  building 
lots!  ” 

“ That,”  observed  Fitzroy,  “ doesn’t  add  anything 
to  their  beauty.” 

“ It  adds  a great  deal  to  their  value,  though. 
Don’t  you  think  there  is  something  rather  magnifi- 
cent in  keeping  up  such  a place  as  this  instead  of  let- 
ting it  go?  ” 

“ I think  there  would  be  something  rather  sordid 
and  disgraceful  in  letting  it  go,  and  I am  sure  you 
agree  with  me.” 

“ Do  I?  ” asked  Lady  Elizabeth  pensively. 

“ Certainly  you  do.  If  you  thought,  as  most  peo- 
ple do  nowadays,  that  hard  cash  is  the  one  and  only 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED.  237 


thing  worth  securing,  you  would  have  married  some 
millionaire  or  other  before  now.” 

“ I suppose  I should,”  said  Lady  Elizabeth,  for- 
getting, perhaps,  that  she  had  not  as  yet  been  assailed 
by  the  temptation  referred  to.  “ Millionaire  or  pau- 
per,” she  added,  “ the  man  whom  I marry — if  I ever 
do  marry — will  have  to  be  one  whom  I care  for  and 
who  cares  for  me.” 

“ Would  you  call  me  a pauper?  ” Fitzroy  inquired. 

“ Oh,  no;  there  aren’t  any  paupers  in  the  Guards, 
are  there?  Why  do  you  ask?  ” 

“ Only  because,  as  you  know,  I care  a very  great 
deal  for  you.  It  is  for  you  to  say  whether  I fulfil  the 
other  condition  or  not.  Do  I?  ” 

To  this  somewhat  unimpassioned  query  the  girl 
returned  no  immediate  reply.  She  had  rested  herself 
upon  a low  marble  balustrade  and  was  gazing  over 
her  suitor’s  head  with  a faint  smile  upon  her  lips. 
ISTot  until  she  had  been  adjured  a little  more  warmly 
to  put  a poor  beggar  out  of  his  pain  did  she  rejoin: 

“ It  depends.  You  are  so  kind  as  to  say  that  you 
care  for  me  and  that  I know  it;  but  I don’t  know  it 
at  all.  Sometimes  I have  felt  almost  sure  that  you 
care  much  more  for  your  cousin.” 

“ For  Cuckoo? — how  absurd!  Of  course  I am 
fond  of  her  and  I always  have  been,  but  I am  afraid, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  she  positively  dislikes  me 
now.” 

Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell  was,  by  universal  consent, 
sweet-tempered,  but  this  disclaimer,  which,  it  must 
be  owned,  was  not  very  adroitly  worded,  caused  her  to 
look  for  a moment  like  a shrewish  little  minx. 


238 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ I really  haven’t  the  slightest  curiosity  with  re- 
gard to  your  cousin’s  sentiments/’  she  declared  tartly; 
“we  were  speaking,  I thought,  about  yours.  Can 
you  say,  upon  your  honour  as  a gentleman,  that  you 
are  not  in  love  with  her?  ” 

“ Should  I be  such  a knave  and  such  a fool  as  to 
ask  you  to  be  my  wife  if  I were?  ” 

“ That,”  observed  Lady  Elizabeth,  “ is  not  an 
answer.” 

“ Then  let  me  assure  you,  if  there  is  any  need  to 
assure  you,  that  I am  not  in  love  with  Cuckoo.  I 
won’t  deny,”  continued  the  scrupulous  Fitzroy,  “ that 
there  was  a time  when  I had  hopes,  or  illusions,  or 
whatever  you  like  to  call  them;  but  I doubt  whether 
there  ever  was  a time  when  she  wouldn’t  have  laughed 
the  idea  of  marrying  me  to  scorn.  Anyhow,  that’s 
ancient  history,  and  I suppose  every  honest  man,  and 
every  honest  woman,  too,  would  have  to  confess,  if 
challenged,  to  some  boyish  or  girlish  attachments. 
As  for  me,  I have  nothing  to  conceal.  You  know  all 
about  me — or  if  you  don’t  I’ll  willingly  tell  you — that 
there  is  to  know.” 

He  was  subjected  to  a tolerably  severe  cross-exam- 
ination before  he  received  the  admission  for  which 
he  pleaded;  hut  this  was  at  length  vouchsafed  to  him, 
together  with  the  happy  privileges  of  an  accepted 
lover.  Nevertheless,  Lady  Elizabeth  was  not  quite 
magnanimous  enough  to  refrain  from  trampling  upon 
the  fallen. 

“ I shall  always  believe,”  said  she,  “ that  that 
horrid  girl — yes,  she  really  is  a horrid  girl! — has  been 
secretly  setting  her  cap  at  you  all  this  time,  and  that 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 


239 


she  wouldn’t  have  behaved  as  she  has  done  with  Mr. 
Carew  if  she  hadn’t  hoped  in  her  heart  to  make  you 
jealous.  In  a sort  of  way,  I am  sorry  for  her;  still, 
she  has  brought  it  upon  herself.” 

“ Brought  what  upon  herself?”  Fitzroy  inquired. 

“ I don’t  like  to  call  it  disgrace,  though  I am 
afraid  there  is  no  other  name  for  it.  Unfortunately, 

everybody  knows  what  Mr.  Carew  is;  and  besides 

But  perhaps  we  had  better  not  talk  about  it.” 

Fitzroy  was  not  particularly  desirous  of  talking 
about  Cuckoo;  yet  he  was  rendered  too  uneasy  by 
these  hints  to  keep  silence.  “ Has  anything  unpleas- 
ant happened?  ” he  asked.  “ I heard  to-day  that  the 
presentation  had  been  put  off,  and  I wondered  why; 
but  she  declined  to  tell  me.” 

A fugitive  gleam,  as  of  triumph,  was  visible  in 
Lady  Elizabeth’s  blue  eyes;  but  all  she  said — and, 
everything  considered,  it  sounded  a kind  comment  to 
make — was  “ Poor  girl!  ” 

“ Surely,”  exclaimed  Fitzroy,  “ you  don’t  mean 
that  it  has  come  to  that!  She  may  have  been  foolish, 
and  I dare  say  she  has;  but — but,  hang  it  all!  she 
can’t  have  been  scandalous!  ” 

Lady  Elizabeth  really  did  not  know  and  sincerely 
hoped  not.  It  was  possible,  however,  that  there  might 
be  objections  unconnected  with  Miss  Pennant’s  per- 
sonal conduct  to  her  being  received  at  Court.  Per- 
haps, if  Fitzroy  wanted  to  hear  all  about  it,  he  had 
better  ask  his  uncle. 

“ I don’t  in  the  least  understand  you,”  said  the 
young  man,  frowning.  “ You  seem  to  know  some- 
thing that  I don’t  know;  what  is  it?” 


240 


THE  WIDOWER. 


This  unbecomingly  peremptory  demand  would 
not,  perhaps,  have  been  complied  with  if  Lady 
Elizabeth  had  not  in  truth  been  eager  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  fact  that  his  so-called  cousin  was 
a nameless  nobody.  As  it  was,  the  reluctance 
which  she  professed  was  soon  overcome,  and  she 
said: 

“ Well,  since  you  insist,  I will  tell  you,  though  I 
am  not  sure  that  I didn’t  promise  not  to  tell.  But 
there  ought  not  to  be  any  secrets  between  us  now, 
ought  there? 99 

“ I don’t  think  there  ought;  and  you  may  rely 
upon  it  that  anything  you  say  to  me  in  confidence  will 
go  no  further  without  your  permission.” 

Thus  encouraged,  Lady  Elizabeth  regretfully 
placed  her  future  husband  in  possession  of  a story 
which,  if  veracious — as  there  was  only  too  good  reason 
to  fear  that  it  was — reflected  no  great  credit  upon  the 
head  of  his  family.  Authorities  she  did  not  quote, 
although  authorities  were  doubtless  available;  she 
could  only  repeat  to  him  what  she  had  heard  from 
her  mother,  and  add  that  her  mother,  who  was  not 
easily  taken  in,  had  been  convinced.  “ Of  course  Miss 
Pennant,  whom  I suppose  we  must  continue  to  call 
Miss  Pennant  until  we  know  what  her  real  name  is, 
can  not  be  held  responsible  for  our  all  having  been  so 
imposed  upon — and  I wish  I had  not  called  her  hor- 
rid just  now;  I feel  as  if  she  ought  to  be  for- 
given anything  and  everything,  poor  creature!  But 
it  does  seem  to  me  that  your  uncle  has  been  quite 
unpardonable!  He  might  have  known  that  the 
truth  was  sure  to  come  out  some  day,  and  he  might 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 


241 


have  remembered  that  when  it  did  come  out  he 
would  not  be  the  only  sufferer.” 

“ I don't  believe  one  solitary  word  of  all  this!” 
declared  Fitzroy  stoutly.  “ There  is  no  man  in 
England  who  is  less  likely  to  be  guilty  of  a fraud 
of  any  sort  or  kind  than  Uncle  James.” 

But  in  the  sequel  he  had  to  modify  that  uncom- 
promising attitude  a little.  It  was  pointed  out  to 
him  that  there  must,  after  all,  be  some  reason  for 
the  abandonment  or  postponement  of  Cuckoo's  pres- 
entation, and  that  if,  as  was  to  be  hoped,  Mr.  Carew 
had  nothing  to  do  with  this,  the  cause  must  be 
sought  elsewhere.  He  was  reminded,  furthermore, 
that,  supposing  current  rumours  to  be  false,  nothing 
would  be  easier  than  to  prove  their  falsity,  while 
mere  obstinate  incredulity  could  not  help  anybody. 
Finally,  he  was  asked,  with  a touch  of  indigna- 
tion, whether  he  thought  that  Lady  Rochdale  would 
commit  herself,  even  under  promise  of  secrecy,  to 
statements  which  might  not  be  readily  authenti- 
cated. 

That,  to  be  sure,  was  exactly  what  he  did  think; 
still  the  suggestion  had  to  be  repudiated.  “ I am 
not  breathing  a word  against  your  mother's  good 
faith,”  he  declared;  “ no  doubt  she  relies  upon  the 
word  of  her  informants.  Only  I can't  accept  it 
without  at  least  knowing  who  they  are.  If  you  don't 
mind.  I'll  ask  her.” 

“I  don't  mind  a bit,”  Lady  Elizabeth  answered; 
“but  perhaps  you  had  better  not  ask  too  much  of 

her  in  one  day.  You  see ■”  She  paused,  with 

a pretty  hesitation,  and  then  resumed:  “You  see. 


242 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Fitz,  my  people  have  always  thought  much  more  of 
me  than  they  ought,  and  although  I believe  they  are 
really  fond  of  you,  perhaps  they  may  not  think 
you  quite ” 

“ Quite  worthy  of  my  good  fortune?  Small 
blame  to  them,  Fm  sure,  if  they  don’t!  ” returned 
the  modest  aspirant.  “ Nobody  can  agree  with  them 
more  heartily  upon  that  point  than  I do.  All  I can 
venture  to  say  for  myself — and  it’s  saying  a good 
deal,  isn’t  it? — is  that  you  don’t  consider  me  un- 
worthy.” 

In  this  way  the  conversation  took  a turn  more 
appropriate  to  the  circumstances,  and  vows  of  eter- 
nal fidelity  were  duly  exchanged.  These  were  doubt- 
less sincere,  although  a very  shrewd  eavesdropper 
might  not  have  felt  absolutely  certain  that  they 
would  be  kept,  in  the  face  of  possible  obstacles  of 
one  kind  or  another.  For  the  young  man’s  atten- 
tion seemed  to  wander  at  moments,  while  the  young 
woman  was  more  inquisitive  than  she  should  have 
been  so  early  in  the  business  as  to  the  precise  amount 
of  his  income,  actual  and  prospective. 

Obstacles,  at  all  events,  were  not  raised  by  Lady 
Eochdale,  to  whom  the  news  was  speedily  imparted 
by  her  daughter,  and  she  was  so  kind  as  to  squeeze 
Fitzroy’s  hand  when  he  helped  her  into  her  carriage 
an  hour  later. 

“ Oh,  jump  in,”  said  she,  perceiving  that  he  was 
waiting  to  be  asked;  “ we  brought  you  out  here,  and 
the  least  we  can  do  is  to  take  you  back  with  us. 
Besides,  you  may  as  well  see  Lord  Rochdale  at  once 
and  fight  it  out  with  him.” 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 


243 


“ Is  there  going  to  be  a fight? ” inquired  the 
young  man. 

Lady  Rochdale  laughed.  “ Well — did  you  ex- 
pect to  be  welcomed  with  open  arms?  For  my  own 
part,  I am  quite  ready  to  back  you  up;  I happen  to 
have  a weakness  for  lovers  in  general,  and  for  you 
in  particular.  But  you  can’t  be  called  ideal,  and 
you  labour  under  the  disadvantage  of  being  your 
uncle’s  nephew.” 

Her  ladyship  did  not  labour  under  any  disad- 
vantage in  the  shape  of  constitutional  timidity  or 
reticence.  During  the  return  drive  she  did  nearly 
all  the  talking,  and  if  her  remarks  caused  one  of 
her  hearers  to  wince  every  now  and  then  she  did  not 
appear  to  notice  these  symptoms  of  discomfort.  She 
did  not  scruple  to  tell  him  that,  in  her  opinion,  he 
was  an  extremely  lucky  fellow,  and  that  the  projected 
alliance,  supposing  it  came  off,  would  raise  him  sev- 
eral pegs  in  the  social  scale;  she  had  a word  or  two 
of  condescending  patronage  to  bestow  upon  his  im- 
mediate relatives,  and  she  added: 

“As  for  the  collaterals,  I won’t,  of  course,  ask 
you  to  cut  them;  but  I am  sure  you  will  understand 
that  we  can  hardly  keep  up  our  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  Pennant  after  the  outrageous  attacks  he  has 
made  upon  Lord  Rochdale.” 

Oh,  the  prophetic  soul  of  Cuckoo!  Fitzroy  re- 
membered so  well  her  attribution  to  the  speaker  of 
the  words  almost  identical  with  these  that  he  broke 
out  into  an  abrupt,  untimely  laugh  which  had  not 
much  ring  of  mirth  in  it.  He  was  not  invited  to 
explain  his  discourteous  hilarity,  which  was  perhaps 


THE  WIDOWER. 


244 

drowned  by  the  rattle  of  the  traffic  in  the  crowded 
street,  nor  did  he  deem  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
respond  by  any  immediate  protest.  But  he  felt 
somewhat  snubbed  and  chilled — possibly  he  may 
have  been  intended  to  feel  so — and  in  any  case  he 
was  not  inclined  to  take  that  opportunity  of  putting 
the  question  which  he  had  asked  Lady  Elizabeth's 
permission  to  put. 

Lord  Rochdale,  into  whose  august  presence  he 
was  ultimately  ushered,  received  him  in  the  dry, 
curt  style  with  which  certain  permanent  officials 
were  disagreeably  familiar.  “ I understand,  Mr. 
Pennant,  that  you  have  paid  my  daughter  Elizabeth 
the  compliment  of  asking  her  to  marry  you." 

“ And  she  has  paid  me  the  compliment  of  accept- 
ing me,"  answered  Fitzroy. 

“ Subject,  of  course,  to  my  approval.  Well,  I 
will  noi  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  I entirely  approve; 
but  at  the  same  time  I shall  not  feel  justified  in 
withholding  my  consent,  provided,  in  the  first  place, 
that  you  can  satisfy  me  of  your  ability  to  maintain 
the  sort  of  establishment  to  which  she  has  been  ac- 
customed." 

Fitzroy  was  afraid  he  could  hardly  do  that  with- 
out running  into  debt  (it  was  notorious  that  Lord 
Rochdale  was  seriously  embarrassed),  but  he  stated 
what  his  actual  income  was  and  alluded  to  his  ex- 
pectations. 

“ Ah,  well,"  observed  the  sour-looking,  gray- 
headed man,  “ I suppose  we  must  assume  that 
your  expectations  will  be  fulfilled,  although  there 
is  no  reason  why  your  uncle  should  not  marry  and 


FITZROY  IS  HIGHLY  FAVOURED. 


245 


have  a son.  From  the  pecuniary  standpoint,  your 
demand  is  admissible — just  admissible.  But  with 
regard  to  that  uncle  of  yours,  I may  tell  you  at  once 
that  the  idea  of  being  connected  with  him  by  mar- 
riage is  not  pleasant  to  me,” 

“ I can’t  help  that,”  returned  Fitzroy,  who  was 
becoming  rather  hot  about  the  ears. 

“ No,  you  can’t  help  that;  but  I think  it  advis- 
able to  mention  at  the  outset  that,  for  more  reasons 
than  one,  I do  not  wish  my  daughter  to  be  brought 
into  contact  with  him  and  his — er — family.” 

“ I dare  say  that  they  will  not  insist  upon  being 
brought  into  contact  with  her.  When  you  speak  of 
more  reasons  than  one,  may  I ask  whether  you  al- 
lude to  rumours  about  my  cousin — false  rumours, 
in  all  probability — of  which  I have  heard  for  the 
first  time  to-day?” 

Lord  Rochdale  waved  his  hand.  “ My  dear 
young  man,  I must  decline  to  discuss  rumours  which 
it  is  no  business  of  mine  to  investigate.  I am  en- 
titled to  make  stipulations,  and  I make  them,  that 
is  all.” 

“ If  you  stipulate  that  I am  to  turn  my  back 
upon  my  uncle  and  my  cousin,  I can’t  agree,”  said 
Fitzroy  firmly. 

But  Lord  Rochdale,  who  had  received  instruc- 
tions from  his  wife,  w'as  not  so  exacting  as  that, 
lie  merely  wished  it  to  be  understood  that  this 
somewhat  imperious  young  Guardsman  ought  to  es- 
teem himself  highly  favoured,  and  that  the  Right 
Honourable  gentleman  who  had  wantonly  turned  an 
enlightened  ministry  out  of  office  must  not  expect 


246 


THE  WIDOWER. 


to  be  forgiven.  About  Cuckoo  and  her  alleged  false 
position  he  refused  to  say  one  word,  repeating  that 
that  affair  was  no  business  of  his.  In  the  end  Fitz- 
roy  was  dismissed  to  announce  to  his  betrothed  the 
glad  tidings  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  the  paternal 
sanction.  What  more  could  an  ardent  lover  desire? 
and  why  should  it  have  been  necessary  for  the  young 
man  to  pause  on  the  staircase  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether and  compose  his  features  into  an  appropriate- 
ly joyful  expression? 

No  satisfactory  reply  could  be  made  to  the  latter 
question,  so  Fitzroy  wisely  dismissed  it  from  his 
mind. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 

James  Pennant  returned  home  toward  the  close 
of  a busy  and  harassing  day  to  seat  himself  in  his 
study  and  ruminate  over  private  and  personal  af- 
fairs about  which  he  had  not,  up  to  that  moment, 
had  leisure  to  think.  And  the  more  he  thought 
about  them  the  less  their  aspect  pleased  him.  If 
there  was  one  thing  more  repugnant  to  him,  in  pri- 
vate as  well  as  in  public  life,  than  practising  de- 
ception it  was  asking  favours;  his  pride  and  his 
sense  of  duty  shrank  alike  from  concealments  and 
from  obligations.  Yet,  as  matters  stood,  he  must, 
it  seemed,  be  guilty  of  the  one  and  incur  the  other. 
The  girl  who  was  as  dear  to  him  as  if  she  had  been 
his  daughter,  and  who  could  not  have  disappointed 
him  more  had  she  been  what  she  was  not,  must  at 
all  hazards  be  shielded  and  kept  in  the  dark.  That 
much  he  owed,  not  only  to  her,  hut  to  his  dead 
wife  and  his  pledged  word.  But  a man  can  not  al- 
ways pay  what  he  owes,  and  what  caused  this  de- 
spondent and  eminently  successful  politician  to 
doubt  whether  the  prizes  of  existence  make  amends 
for  the  bitterness  of  its  failures  was  the  extreme  im- 
probability of  Lady  Rochdale’s  holding  her  tongue, 

247 


248 


THE  WIDOWER. 


even  supposing  that  persons  in  authority  could  be 
induced  to  hold  theirs. 

“ One  can’t,”  he  mused,  “ tell  a direct  lie  in  an- 
swer to  a direct  question.  Sooner  or  later  that  ques- 
tion will  be  put  to  me,  and  then  I shall  have  to 
speak  out,  whether  I like  it  or  not.” 

The  question  was  going  to  be  put  to  him  sooner 
than  he  anticipated.  A knock  at  the  door  (it  was 
significant  of  their  distant  and  formal  relations  that 
Cuckoo  did  not  choose  to  enter  his  room  .without 
knocking)  heralded  the  appearance  of  the  intending 
questioner,  who  lost  no  time  in  accounting  for  her  in- 
trusion. 

“ I want  to  know,”  she  began,  “ whether  some- 1 
thing  that  I heard  this  afternoon  from  Mrs.  Arthur 
Pennant  is  true  or  not.” 

“ Why,”  inquired  J ames,  “ do  you  call  your  aunt 
‘ Mrs.  Arthur  Pennant  ’?  ” 

“ Because  if  what  she  says  is  true  she  is  no  more 
my  aunt  than  you  are  my  father.  Is  that  true?  ” 

Here  was  the  dreaded  direct  question  with  a 
vengeance!  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  reply 
sorrowfully,  “ I hoped  you  might  have  been  spared 
this.” 

“ It  is  true,  then?  ” 

“Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  true.  You  are  only  my 
daughter  in  the  sense  that  I have  always  looked  upon 
you  as  being  mine,  that  nobody  else  has  any  claim 
upon  you,  and  that  legally  I stand  toward  you  in  loco 
parentis.  I should  have  told  you  this  before  now, 
if ” 

“And  you  have  hidden  the  facts  from  me  all 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 


249 


this  time/*  interrupted  Cuckoo  with  ominous  calm- 
ness, “ and  you  would  have  continued  to  hide  them 
if  they  had  not  been  discovered  by  outsiders?  ** 

James  made  a sign  of  assent.  “ I considered 
that  I was  in  duty  bound  to  keep  silence.  I was 
about  to  say  that  that  is  why  I have  never  enlight- 
ened you.** 

“ Perhaps/*  Cuckoo  went  on  in  the  same  com- 
posed accents,  “ it  is  because  the  facts  have  become 
known  to  outsiders  that  Lady  Wardlaw  can*t  present 
me  at  the  next  Drawing-room?** 

“ We  thought  it  best  to  defer  your  presentation 
because,  by  some  means  or  other,  rumours  appear  to 
have  reached  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  As  for  the 
facts,  I doubt  very  much  whether  they  are  really 
known  to  anybody,  or  capable  of  being  proved  by 
anybody  in  England,  except  myself.  What,  I im- 
agine, has  happened  is  that  Budgett,  who  may  have 
heard  something  in  years  gone  by,  has  told  what 
little  she  knows  to  Lady  Rochdale  out  of  spite,  and 
that  Lady  Rochdale,  with  the  same  amiable  motive, 
has  repeated  the  story.  William  Wardlaw  thinks — 
and,  upon  the  whole,  I am  inclined  to  agree  with 
him — that,  under  the  new  ministry,  our  secret  may 
still  be  kept;  and,  for  everybody*s  sake,  it  is  better 
that  it  should  be  kept,  if  possible.  It  is  not  in  any 
way  a disgraceful  secret;  it  concerns  only  ourselves, 
and,  as  I say,  the  formalities  which  make  you  le- 
gally my  daughter  were  gone  through  long  ago.** 

“ You  don*t  think  it  disgraceful,  then,  to  take 
everybody  in?  ** 

A dusky  flush  rose  slowly  to  James’s  cheek  bones 


250 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  fixed  itself  there.  “ I don’t,”  he  answered, 
“ think  that  I incur  any  disgrace  by  keeping  my 
family  affairs  to  myself  and  ignoring  mere  gossip.” 

“ But  what  if  you  were  questioned  by  those  who 
had  a right  to  question  you?  What  if  somebody 
wanted  to  marry  me,  for  instance?  ” 

“ In  that  case,  of  course,  I should  at  once  ac- 
knowledge the  truth,  but  I should  add  that  I wished 
it  to  go  no  further.” 

Cuckoo’s  laugh  was  not  a very  pleasant  sounding 
one  to  sensitive  ears*  “ One  begins,”  she  remarked, 
“ to  see  the  difference  between  the  goose  and  the 
gander.  All  my  life  long — ever  since  I was  quite  a 
small  child — you  have  disliked  and  despised  me  for 
telling  lies,  and  I have  always  acknowledged  in  my 
heart  that  you  were  right,  because  you  yourself  were 
so  terribly,  inexorably  truthful.  But  deceit  and  pre- 
varication are  not  the  same  thing  as  lying,  I suppose. 
Not,  at  any  rate,  when  they  are  employed  by  my 
betters.” 

James  sighed.  “ I have  done  wrong,”  he  con- 
fessed. “ All  I can  say  is  that,  having  made  a 
promise,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I ought  to  keep  it. 
My  wife,  who  was  never  happy  with  me  and  for 
whose  unhappiness  I was  to  some  extent  to  blame, 
was  not  satisfied  with  adopting  you;  she  made  a 
great  point  of  your  passing  as  our  own  child,  and 
I did  not,  all  those  years  ago,  foresee  what  trouble 
might  arise  out  of  complying  with  her  wish.” 

This  excuse,  such  as  it  was,  did  not  avail  to  soften 
James’s  accuser.  “ The  old  story  of  Adam  and 
Eve,”  was  her  comment.  “ You  yourself  don’t  like 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 


251 


apples,  but  you  couldn’t  be  so  rude  as  to  disoblige 
a lady.  Well,  one  comfort  is  that  nobody  will  doubt 
the  nobility  of  your  motives.  When  everything 
comes  out  I shall  be  the  sufferer,  not  you.” 

That  was  so  painfully  like  the  truth — though  so 
very  far  from  being  the  truth — that  he  could  only 
rejoin:  “ I hope  everything  will  not  come  out.” 

“ Surely  it  is  a little  too  late  in  the  day  to  hope 
for  that.  Ignoring  what  you  call  ‘ mere  gossip/  or 
even  swearing  ourselves  black  in  the  face,  will  scarce- 
ly convince  people  now  that  we  are  father  and  daugh- 
ter in  anything  but  name.  By  the  way,  what  is  my 
name?  ” 

He  mentioned  the  plebeian  patronymic  which 
was  hers  by  right  of  birth;  he  also  related  the  his- 
tory of  her  dead  parents  and  spoke  with  somewhat 
more  freedom  than  he  had  ever  done  before  of  his 
own.  That,  in  his  dry,  dispassionate  way,  he  made 
out  a case  for  himself  Cuckoo,  sore  and  indignant 
though  she  was,  could  not  deny;  but — perhaps  for 
that  very  reason — she  felt  no  disposition  to  deal 
leniently  with  him. 

“ The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  I am  an 
impostor,”  was  the  conclusion  to  which  she  gave 
utterance  when  he  ceased.  “ I can’t  say  that  it 
consoles  me  very  much  to  know  that  you  are  another. 
It  is  a little  bit  of  a shock  to  me,  you  see.  Some- 
times— why  shouldn’t  I own  it  now? — I have  thought 
you  unsympathizing  and  even  unjust,  but  I have  al- 
ways believed  that  you  were  absolutely  straight — 
and  it  doesn’t  do  one  any  good  to  be  deprived  of 
these  little  illusions.” 

17 


252 


THE  WIDOWER. 


If  she  wished  to  make  him  smart,  her  words  were 
well  chosen.  She  could  not  have  hit  upon  any  more 
certain  to  wound  him  to  the  heart,  nor  could  the 
worst  of  convicted  criminals  have  looked  more  de- 
jectedly humiliated  than  he  did.  Yet  some  per- 
verse, fantastic  cause  or  other — some  inherent  dis- 
ability which  was  a part  of  the  man — precluded  him 
from  casting  himself  upon  her  mercy  and  taking  the 
first  steps  toward  a reconciliation  for  which  both  he 
and  she  were  secretly  aching. 

“ I must  accept  any  rebukes  that  you  may  see 
fit  to  address  to  me,”  he  said  coldly;  “ it  stands  to 
reason  that  I have  no  valid  defence.  Vituperation, 
however,  will  not  help  us  much  toward  deciding  upon 
our  future  course  of  action.” 

“ Do  we  want  any  help?  I should  have  thought 
that,  since  the  murder  is  out,  our  course  of  action 
was  beautifully  simple.  What  is  to  be  done?  An- 
swer, 6 Nothing  ’ — and  we  go  up  to  the  top  of  the 
class.  At  least,  you  do;  as  for  me,  I suppose  I must 
be  looked  upon  as  declassee .” 

“ What  I meant,”  said  J ames  in  the  same  dry, 
level  tone,  “ is  that  we  can  still  choose  between 
avowing  all  and  remaining  silent.  I had  made  up 
my  mind  to  remain  silent  because  I hoped — absurdly, 
no  doubt — that  you  would  never  hear  what  you  have 
heard;  but  now  the  chief,  if  not  the  only  argument 
in  favour  of  silence  no  longer  exists.  What  is  your 
own  wish  in  the  matter?  ” 

“ My  own  wish!”  broke  out  Cuckoo.  “ Oh,  I 
haven’t  any  wish — except  that  I had  never  been  born, 
or  that  I could  be  obliterated!” 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 


253 


She  was  taking  it  very  hard,  it  seemed.  Some- 
how he  had  not  imagined  that  she  would  take  it  so 
hard  as  that,  and  in  his  pity  and  remorse  he  lost 
hold  over  himself  for  a moment. 

“ Cuckoo!”  he  exclaimed,  stretching  out  his 
hands  imploringly. 

Unluckily,  his  action  brought  back  vividly  to  her 
memory  a former  scene  in  which  she  had  played  the 
part  of  suppliant  and  had  been  gently  but  firmly 
repelled.  She  recollected  how,  on  a certain  even- 
ing, she  had  nerved  herself  to  confess  that  she  had 
been  backing  horses,  after  having  previously  sworn 
that  she  had  done  no  such  thing,  and  how,  in  re- 
sponse to  a timid  appeal,  she  had  been  asked  whether 
it  was  not  time  to  go  and  dress  for  dinner.  Now 
the  tables  were  turned;  now,  as  on  that  bygone 
occasion,  she  and  her  supposed  father  had  to  keep 
a dinner  engagement,  and  the  temptation  to  pay  him 
out  in  his  own  coin  was  irresistible. 

• “ It  is  getting  on  for  eight  o’clock, ” she  re- 
marked, “ and  I’m  afraid  I can’t  be  ready  to  go  out 
in  less  than  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Hadn’t  we 
better  adjourn  the  discussion — if  there  is  anything 
more  to  discuss?  ” 

At  a large,  dull  dinner  party — and  large  dinner 
parties  are  almost  always  dull — the  philosophic  guest 
can  always  derive  some  measure  of  entertainment 
from  the  trite  but  interesting  reflection  that  those 
who  sit  at  meat  with  him  must  of  necessity  be  a set 
of  more  or  less  skilful  actors.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A. 
have  very  likely  been  fighting  like  cat  and  dog  on 
their  way  to  the  festive  board;  poor  B.  can  not  have 


254 


THE  WIDOWER. 


forgotten  that  bankruptcy  stares  him  in  the  face; 
C.  has  still  in  his  pocket,  perhaps,  the  letter  which 
has  informed  him  that  his  son  has  brought  shame 
upon  the  family,  while  D.,  who  is  chattering  to  him 
so  valorously  and  light-heartedly,  may  have  heard 
her  doom  pronounced  only  a few  hours  back  by  an 
infallible  physician.  Yet  they  contrive,  one  and  all, 
to  keep  up  appearances,  and  if  one  did  not  know 
that  the  thing  was  well-nigh  impossible,  one  would 
be  inclined  to  say  that  they  had  not  an  ache  or  a 
pain  among  them.  James  Pennant  and  Cuckoo, 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  brought  unmoved  coun- 
tenances to  the  big  banquet  which  they  were  bound 
to  attend,  and  perhaps  nobody  present  was  either 
philosophic  enough  or  well-informed  enough  to  sur- 
mise that  anything  was  the  matter  with  them.  That, 
however,  did  not  preserve  one  of  them  from  detect- 
ing, or  imagining  (it  was  in  reality  sheer  imagina- 
tion), a subtle  change  of  manner  toward  her  on  the 
part  of  her  next  neighbours.  They  were  saying  «to 
themselves,  she  felt  sure,  that  it  was  tolerably  au- 
dacious of  her  to  be  where  she  was,  and  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  she  would  have  given  evidence  of 
better  taste  by  sending  an  excuse;  they  were  com- 
miserating her  a little,  admiring  her  pluck  a little, 
laughing  at  her  in  their  sleeves  no  more  than  they 
could  help.  The  irony  with  which  they  congratu- 
lated her  upon  being  the  daughter  of  a personage  so 
important  and  powerful  as  Mr.  Pennant  had  become 
was  not  made  too  apparent. 

Her  method  of  retaliating  upon  two  innocent 
gentleman  who  only  wished  to  make  themselves  agree- 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 


255 


able  to  her  took  the  form  of  a gay  and  somewhat 
reckless  garrulity.  She  always  knew  how  to  be  en- 
tertaining; she  could  occasionally  be  witty;  her  de- 
sire was  to  show  them  that  she  did  not  care  a pin 
for  them  or  anybody  else,  and  she  succeeded  so  well 
that  they  ended — neither  of  them  being  very  young 
— by  piously  thanking  God  that  they  were  not  per- 
sonally responsible  for  the  words  and  ways  of  this 
very  clever  girl.  James,  who  was  watching  her  sur- 
reptitiously from  afar,  and  to  whom  fragments  of  her 
conversation  were  wafted  from  time  to  time,  groaned 
within  himself.  He,  unhappily,  was  responsible  for 
the  clever  girl — and  a pretty  mess  he  seemed  to  have 
made  of  his  responsibility,  first  and  last! 

The  big  dinner  was  followed  by  a much  bigger 
reception,  for  the  hostess  of  the  evening  was  a lady 
who  aspired  to  revive  the  old-fashioned  combination 
of  social  and  political  eminence,  and  the  moment  was 
a suitable  one  for  the  assembling  together  of  all 
good  Tories  whose  birth  and  standing  justified  a 
hospitable  summons. 

That  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  were  included  in  the 
above  category  was  proved  by  their  arrival  at  a late 
hour,  and  that  Julia  was  in  no  good  humour  was 
proved  by  the  unusually  chilly  greeting  which  she 
vouchsafed  to  Miss  Pennant. 

“ You  have  heard,  I perceive,”  observed  Cuckoo 
to  Harry,  who  remained  by  her  side  after  his  wife 
had  passed  on. 

“ I have  heard  that  your  father  goes  to  the  Colo- 
nial Office,”  he  answered.  “ My  respectful  felici- 
tations! ” 


256 


THE  WIDOWEE. 


“ You  know  I don’t  mean  that.  I mean  that 
henceforth  I shall  be  looked  at  askance  by  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people — though  not  by  you,  per- 
haps— and  that  Mrs.  Carew  has  just  fired  the  first 
shot.” 

He  truthfully  declared  that  he  had  not  the  least 
idea  of  what  she  was  talking  about,  so  she  drew  him 
away  into  a comparatively  secluded  recess  to  explain 
matters.  Julia,  it  appeared,  after  the  tale  had  been 
told,  was  in  the  sulks  by  reason  of  the  familiar  causes 
which  never  failed  to  produce  that  too  familiar  ef- 
fect; if  she  had  been  rude  to  Cuckoo,  it  certainly 
could  not  be  on  account  of  her  having  heard  what 
was  news  to  her  husband. 

“ If  any  hint  of  it  had  come  to  her  ears  she  would 
have  told  me,  and,  to  do  her  justice,  I don’t  think 
it  would  have  prejudiced  her  against  you  for  a mo- 
ment. Why  should  it?  What,  after  all,  does  it 
signify?  ” 

“ You  would  have  to  be  in  my  place  before  you 
could  understand  how  much  it  signifies,”  answered 
Cuckoo.  “ It  signifies  so  much  to  me  that  I simply 
can’t  bear  it,  that’s  all.” 

“Ah!  there  are  so  many  things  that  one  can’t 
bear — and  yet  one  has  to  bear  them!  ” sighed  Harry. 
“ Between  you  and  me,  I can’t  bear  J ulia — but  I 
must!  ” 

An  interchange  of  confidences  followed.  Julia 
really  did  seem,  by  her  husband’s  account,  to  have 
been  making  herself  almost  unendurable,  and  we 
know  what  feats  James  Pennant  had  contrived  to 
accomplish  in  a similar  direction.  What  could  be 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TABLES. 


257 


more  natural  or  more  excusable  than  that  two  friends 
thus  sadly  situated  should  pour  forth  to  one  another 
grievances  which  they  were  precluded  from  impart- 
ing to  anybody  else?  And  the  more  they  talked, 
the  more  sensible  they  became  of  mutual  sympathy 
and  comprehension.  Harry,  to  be  sure,  did  not 
quite  understand  why  Cuckoo  should  threaten  to 
relinquish  the  bitter  bread  of  charity  by  a clandes- 
tine flight  from  Mr.  Pennant’s  protection,  nor  did 
he  believe  in  his  heart  that  she  would  do  anything 
so  rash;  but  he  did  not  hesitate  to  remind  her  of  a 
certain  conversation  in  the  Green  Park  and  of  a 
promise  to  which  he  had  committed  himself  on  that 
occasion.  He  went  so  far,  too,  as  to  add: 

“ You  know  that  you  have  only  to  breathe  the 
wTord.” 

“ Even  though  I have  told  you,  and  though  that 
is  absolutely  true,  that  I could  never  by  any  possi- 
bility be  in  love  with  you?” 

‘^Yes;  upon  no  matter  what  terms!  Oh,  I am 
old  and  ugly,  of  course,  and  a fool  into  the  bargain, 
but  though  you  can’t  possibly  care  for  me  as  I care 
for  you,  you  do  like  me,  and  that  is  enough.” 

Cuckoo  was  more  than  half  inclined  to  believe 
that  it  was  enough.  Ever  since  she  could  remem- 
ber her  one  great  wish  and  longing  had  been  to  be 
loved,  and  here  was  a man  who  loved  her.  Nobody 
else  did,  nor  would  anybody  miss  her  if  she  were  to 
vanish  abruptly  from  London  and  England,  as  she 
had  nearly  made  up  her  mind  to  do.  And  Harry 
Carew  wras  just  as  unhappy,  just  as  unlikely  to  be 
missed  as  she  was.  The  immorality  of  annexing 


258 


THE  WIDOWER. 


another  woman’s  husband  was  a drawback,  no  doubt; 
but  when  one  is  a mere  waif  and  stray,  with  no  rela- 
tions to  disgrace,  such  drawbacks  lose  something  of 
their  cogency. 

“ I wonder,”  she  said  presently,  “ what  you  would 
do  if  you  were  to  receive  a telegram  from  me  some 
fine  morning  announcing  that  I had  taken  the  key 
of  the  fields  and  that  I was — at  Jericho,  let  us  say.” 

“ I sjiould  secure  a Cook’s  ticket  for  Jericho 
without  one  moment’s  loss  of  time,”  he  declared. 

“ But  seriously?  ” 

“ I couldn’t  be  more  serious  than  I am.  I would 
follow  you  to  the  world’s  end!  ” 

He  looked  as  if  he  meant  what  he  said,  and  she 
was  fain  to  believe  him,  notwithstanding  the  excel- 
lent reasons  that  she  had  for  doubting  the  good 
faith  of  the  entire  human  race. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


FLIGHT. 

The  newly  appointed  Secretary  of  State  for  the 
Colonies  was  a sorrowful  man  as  he  drove  home- 
ward with  his  adopted  daughter  by  his  side.  He 
did  not  feel  able  to  say  anything  to  her — although 
so  much  still  remained  to  be  said — and  she  certainly 
gave  him  no  encouragement  to  renew  their  inter- 
rupted colloquy.  Her  loquacity  puzzled  and  sad- 
dened him;  he  knew  not  what  to  make  of  the  gaiety, 
genuine  or  assumed,  which  she  displayed,  and  could 
only  respond  by  grunts  or  monosyllables  to  her 
amusing  criticisms  upon  the  company  which  they 
had  just  quitted.  It  had  been  the  privilege  of  her 
sex  to  puzzle  him  all  his  life  long;  among  many 
other  failures,  he  had  conspicuously  failed  in  his 
efforts  to  wean  her  from  the  characteristic  ways  of 
that  sex,  and  now  he  could  not  in  the  least  tell 
whether  she  was  angry  or  indifferent,  or  reconciled 
to  a state  of  things  which  only  a few  hours  before 
had  appeared  to  infuriate  her.  All  he  knew  was 
that  her  laughter  jarred  upon  his  nerves,  that  she 
was  making  it  more  than  ever  impossible  for  him 
to  tell  her  how  bitterly  he  regretted  the  humiliation 
which  his  thoughtlessness  had  brought  upon  her, 

259 


260 


THE  WIDOWER. 


and  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  bid  her  good 
night. 

That  ceremony  was  gone  through  in  the  hall 
immediately  after  their  arrival  in  Ennismore  Gar- 
dens, and  was  unaccompanied  by  the  customary  kiss, 
which  Cuckoo  evaded  by  means  of  a quick  strategic 
move  toward  the  staircase.  James  noticed  the  omis- 
sion, though  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  Had 
he  seen  Cuckoo  in  her  bedroom  five  minutes  later, 
with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  or  had  she  seen 
him  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  his  study,  with  a 
furrowed  brow,  subsequent  follies  might  perhaps  have 
been  averted;  but  since  they  were  hidden  from  one 
another,  physically  as  well  as  mentally,  blind  Destiny 
worked  her  will  with  the  pair  of  them. 

Blind  Destiny  and  folly  urged  upon  Cuckoo  a 
course  for  which  no  excuse  shall  be  attempted  by 
the  humble  chronicler  of  her  adventures.  It  was, 
no  doubt,  sheer  insanity  upon  her  part  to  resolve 
that  she  would  not  any  longer  be  beholden  to  a 
man  who  had  deliberately  deceived  her  and  who 
would  evidently  be  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  her 
once  for  all;  yet  a few  very  charitable  persons  may  be 
willing  to  allow  that  there  was  a good  deal  of  hu- 
man nature  in  that  impetuous  resolution.  What 
nobody  can  be  expected  to  allow  is  that  the  circum- 
stances warranted  an  appeal  to  the  protection  of 
Harry  Carew,  and  the  probable  consequent  deser- 
tion of  the  ill-used  Julia. 

Cuckoo,  however,  had  not  yet  determined  upon 
separating  an  already  semidetached  couple.  She 
was  glad — if  the  whole  truth  must  be  confessed — 


FLIGHT. 


261 


to  know  that  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  effect  that 
separation,  but  whether  she  would  ultimately  use 
her  power  or  not  continued  to  be  an  open  question 
with  her.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was  absolutely 
and  irrevocably  set  upon  declaring  her  liberty  and 
independence.  Her  plan  of  action,  while  she  sat  in 
the  luxuriously  furnished  bedroom  from  which  she 
had  hastened  to  dismiss  her  maid,  was  not  long  in 
taking  definite  shape.  To  luxury,  which  had  failed 
to  bring  her  happiness  (never  having  been  without 
it  she  could  not  know  what  an  admirable  substitute 
for  happiness  luxury  is),  she  was  about  to  bid  fare- 
well; independence,  she  was  convinced,  lay  well 
within  the  grasp  of  so  accomplished  a musician  as 
she  was,  and  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  she 
would  not  starve.  Her  idea  was  that  she  would  al- 
ways be  able  to  earn  enough  to  keep  herself  alive  by 
giving  pianoforte  lessons,  even  though  she  might 
not  all  at  once  be  able  to  attract  a paying  audience 
to  recitals,  and  that  anticipation  was,  as  a matter  of 
fact,  not  unreasonable.  If  she  had  been  a little  older 
and  a little  wiser  it  would  doubtless  have  occurred  to 
her  that  her  purpose  might  be  attained  by  methods 
less  dramatic  than  those  which  she  proposed  to 
adopt;  but  some  alloAvance  must  be  made  for  youth- 
ful predilections  in  favour  of  a startling  exit.  Be- 
fore going  to  bed,  therefore,  Cuckoo  spent  some 
time  in  composing  and  writing  out  the  following 
valedictory  epistle: 

“ When  you  receive  this  I shall  have  left  England, 
never,  I hope,  to  return.  As  I am  not  English  my- 


262 


THE  WIDOWER. 


self  and  have  not  a single  English  relation,  there  is 
no  reason  why  I should — unless  you  call  the  impos- 
ture which  I have  innocently  helped  to  keep  up  all 
this  time  a reason.  You  will  acknowledge,  anyhow, 
that  it  could  not  have  been  kept  up  much  longer, 
and  I dare  say  you  will  understand  my  being  sick  of 
it — and  of  other  things. 

“ Please  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  inquire 
where  I have  gone,  or  to  put  detectives  on  my  track, 
for  I shall  not  be  found,  and  if  I were,  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  return  to  you.  For  the  rest, 
you  can  not  really  wish  me  to  return.  Very  much 
against  the  grain  you  have  done  what  I am  sure 
you  thought  was  the  best  that  you  could  do  for  me, 
and  I have  disappointed  you  as  much  as — excuse  me 
for  saying  so — you  have  disappointed  me.  So  I am 
certainly  doing  the  best  that  I can  for  you  by  taking 
myself  off. 

“ It  will  relieve  your  mind,  perhaps,  to  hear  that 
I am  in  no  danger  of  destitution.  I have  money 
enough  to  pay  my  travelling  expenses,  and  from  the 
moment  that  I reach  my  journey’s  end  I shall  be 
well  provided  for. 

“ I would  be  glad  if  you  would  say  something 
for  me  to  Sir  William  and  Lady  Wardlaw,  whose 
kindness  I shall  not  forget.  I don’t  think  there 
is  anybody  else  who  would  care  about  receiving  a 
message  from  me.  I ought  also,  of  course,  to  thank 
you  for  having  fed  and  clothed  and  educated  me. 
I see  now  what  a burden  I must  have  been  upon  you 
from  the  first,  and  the  only  way  in  which  I can  show 
my  gratitude  is  by  relieving  you  of  it  for  the  future.” 


FLIGHT. 


2G3 


On  reading  over  what  she  had  written,  Cuckoo 
was  fain  to  own  that  it  was  an  odious  composition. 
But  then,  to  be  sure,  she  had  quite  meant  it  to  be 
odious,  so  that  there  was  no  reason  for  hesitating  to 
seal  and  stamp  it.  It  was  to  be  dropped  into  a 
letter  box  at  Charing  Cross  the  next  morning,  she 
had  decided,  and  before  it  could  be  delivered  in 
Ennismore  Gardens  she  would  be  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel.  Then  came  the  question — the  re- 
ally rather  terrible  question — of  clothes  and  lug- 
gage. It  would  be  possible,  of  course,  simply  to 
walk  out  of  the  house  without  saying  anything  to 
anybody,  and  take  a ticket  for  Paris,  but  it  would 
be  miserably,  almost  unbearably,  disagreeable  to  do 
such  a thing  as  that.  In  all  the  great  crises  of  life 
we  are  apt  to  find  ourselves  hampered  and  humil- 
iated by  the  circumstances  that  we  possess  bodies  as 
well  as  souls,  and  that  the  claims  of  the  former  can 
by  no  means  be  set  aside  in  deference  to  the  emotions 
of  the  latter.  Our  best-beloved  dies,  and  our  first 
duty  is  to  send  for  the  undertaker;  we  heroically 
and  desperately  resolve  to  blow  our  brains  out  as 
soon  as  ever  the  necessary  revolver  can  be  purchased, 
but  before  setting  forth  to  buy  it  we  must  brush 
our  teeth,  shave  and  dress,  as  usual.  And  even  a 
young  lady  who  has  determined  to  run  away  from 
home,  never  to  be  heard  of  again,  must  needs  run 
somewhere  and  be  provided  with  a change  of  rai- 
ment at  her  destination.  So  that  really,  upon  the 
whole,  one  ends  by  wondering  whether  a fine  mental 
attitude  is  open  at  all  to  creatures  so  materially 
circumscribed  and  weighed  down  as  we  are.  Cuckoo 


264: 


THE  WIDOWER. 


lay  awake  the  whole  night  through  thinking  of  this, 
clinching  her  hands,  grinding  her  little  white  teeth, 
and  wishing  for  the  hundredth  time  that  she  had 
never  been  born  into  this  wretched,  incongruous, 
tragi-comic  world. 

It  was  perhaps  a mercy  that  James  had  to  break- 
fast early  the  next  morning  and  leave  the  house  im- 
mediately after  disposing  of  a hurried  meal.  At 
all  events,  it  greatly  simplified  matters,  and  enabled 
Miss  Pennant,  who  had  received  several  letters  by 
the  morning’s  post,  to  announce  to  her  maid  that 
she  was  going  to  spend  a few  days  in  the  country 
with  friends  who  had  just  invited  her  to  do  so.  One 
may  as  well  be  hanged  for  a sheep  as  a lamb,  and 
when,  between  ten  and  eleven  o’clock,  a four-wheeled 
cab  bore  Cuckoo  away  from  Ennismore  Gardens,  the 
mass  of  superincumbent  baggage  which  towered 
above  her  head  would  have  aroused  suspicion  in  any 
but  a female  breast.  Neither  the  maid  nor  the 
other  servants,  however,  thought  much  of  that,  and 
that  the  former  was  to  be  left  behind  had  been  ac- 
counted for  upon  the  plea  that  the  people  with 
whom  Miss  Pennant  was  going  to  stay  had  filled 
their  house  from  attic  to  basement. 

So  far  so  good.  Cuckoo  posted  her  letter  at 
Charing  Cross,  despatching  at  the  same  time  a tele- 
gram to  Madame  Voisin  in  Paris.  For  it  was  upon 
Madame  Yoisin’s  protection  that  she  had  decided  to 
cast  herself  in  the  first  instance,  and,  all  things  con- 
sidered, her  choice  was  not  an  unwise  one.  If  any 
one  could  give  her  practical  advice  and  put  her  in 
the  way  of  earning  her  daily  bread,  this  demure, 


FLIGHT. 


265 


experienced  little  woman,  whose  whole  life  had  been 
passed  in  an  artistic  and  professional  milieu , was  the 
person  to  do  it. 

But  Madame  Voisin,  grown  old  and  gray-headed, 
was  not — how  could  she  be? — willing  to  accept  the 
responsibility  which  it  was  sought  to  thrust  upon 
her.  She  welcomed  her  former  charge,  indeed,  with 
open  arms;  the  room  which  Cuckoo  had  occupied  in 
remote  childish  days  was  placed  very  heartily  at  her 
service  (boarders  being  luckily  scarce  just  then),  and 
refreshment,  moral  and  material,  awaited  the  arrived 
traveller.  When,  however,  explanatory  statements 
had  been  made,  the  old  lady  could  but  shake  her 
white  curls  regretfully. 

“ Mon  enfant  ,”  said  she,  “ ces  choses-la,  vois-tu , 
ne  se  font  pas!  ” 

She  could  sympathise,  she  declared,  with  the  im- 
pulse which  had  prompted  Cuckoo’s  ill-advised  flight, 
but  she  could  not  at  all  recognise  the  propriety  of 
such  a proceeding.  Still  less  could  she  consent  to 
aid  and  abet  in  schemes  which,  if  carried  out,  would 
break  the  heart  of  her  kind  friend  and  patron,  Mr. 
Pennant.  Her  duty,  in  point  of  fact,  would  be  to 
inform  him  without  loss  of  time  that  his  daughter 
was  safe  and  sound  and  under  efficient  guardianship. 

“ I call  you  his  daughter,  my  dear  child,”  she 
added,  “ because  I am  sure  that  that  is  what  he 
wishes  you  to  be,  and,  by  your  own  account,  he  has 
the  right  to  insist  upon  a father’s  privileges.  You 
say  he  has  deceived  you,  but  the  deception  was  in- 
tended to  spare  you  pain,  and  it  has  not  been  a very 
cruel  one,  voyons ! ” 


206 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Cuckoo  was  sorry  that  she  was  quite  unable  to 
agree.  “ He  deceived  me,  most  reluctantly — one 
must  render  him  that  justice — in  order  to  keep  a 
promise  which  he  would  never  have  made  if  his  wife 
had  not  been  dying  when  she  extorted  it  from  him. 
It  is  not  he  who  has  broken  it  now,  and  it  is  not  he, 
believe  me,  whose  heart  is  in  any  danger  of  being 
broken.  His  heart,  on  the  contrary,  will  be  rejoiced 
as  soon  as  he  has  made  every  endeavour  to  find  out 
my  whereabouts  and  has  failed,  for  the  truth  is  that 
he  detests  me.” 

“ Ah,  bah!”  ejaculated  Madame  Voisin  sceptic- 
ally. 

“ Oh,  I do  not  say  that  he  has  no  reason.  I am 
not  the  sort  of  girl  whom  it  is  possible  for  him  to 
love,  and  it  is  not  possible  for  him  to  like  the  sort 
of  things  that  I like — or  the  people  either.” 

“The  people?”  repeated  the  shrewd  old  French- 
woman smiling.  “ That  is  more  important — that 
gives  a clew!  Confess,  now,  mon  enfant:  this  coup 
de  tete  of  yours  is  not  due  so  much  to  the  discovery 
that  you  have  made — a discovery  of  no  great  conse- 
quence, when  all  is  said,  ma  foi! — as  to  your  father’s 
disapproval  of  some  particular  people,  or,  perhaps, 
of  some  particular  person.  Who  is  he,  then,  this 
particular  person?  ” 

It  was  in  vain  that  Cuckoo  protested  against  this 
grotesque  misapprehension  of  her  motives;  Madame 
Voisin  was  persuaded  that  what  she  had  to  deal 
with  was  the  case  of  a perverse  and  self-willed 
maiden,  crossed  in  love;  and,  being  so  persuaded, 
she  had  nothing  to  offer,  save  soothing  caresses  and 


FLIGHT. 


267 


assurances  that  all  would  end  by  arranging  itself. 
If  James  Pennant  did  not  receive  a comforting  tele- 
gram that  same  evening,  this  was  only  because  Mad- 
ame Voisin,  who  was  unacquainted  with  his  London 
address,  could  not  obtain  it  from  her  guest.  It  was, 
nevertheless,  obvious  that  she  would  ere  long  find 
means  of  placing  herself  in  communication  with  so 
well-known  a man,  and  she  made  no  secret  of  her 
intentions.  Consequently,  Cuckoo,  baffled  and  dis- 
pirited, took  to  bed  with  her  the  mournful  con- 
viction that  her  first  string  had  snapped  in  her 
hands. 

There  remained  the  second  string,  of  which,  on 
the  ensuing  morning,  she  made  sudden  and  desperate 
use.  It  was  a string,  she  felt,  which  must  needs  be 
used  suddenly  if  it  were  to  be  used  at  all,  and  any- 
thing would  be  better,  anything  would  be  less  hu- 
miliating, than  pursuit  and  capture  by  the  man  who 
was,  it  seemed,  legally  entitled  to  the  custody  of  his 
adopted  daughter.  He  would  not.  Cuckoo  thought, 
with  a bitter  little  smile,  be  eager  to  insist  upon  his 
rights  when  the  telegram  which  she  had  despatched 
to  Harry  Carew  should  have  brought  about  inevi- 
table results. 

Meanwhile  the  letter  which  she  had  posted  at 
Charing  Cross  was  producing  results  unanticipated 
by  her  prescience.  Fitzroy  Pennant,  calling  in  En- 
nismore  Gardens,  shortly  after  it  had  been  delivered, 
to  make  formal  announcement  of  his  betrothal  to 
his  relatives,  found  his  uncle  in  so  perturbed  a con- 
dition that  he  had  to  reserve  that  piece  of  news  for 
a more  favourable  occasion.  His  own  perturbation, 
18 


268 


THE  WIDOWER. 


on  being  taken  into  his  uncle’s  confidence,  was  great 
and  unfeigned. 

“ I’m  awfully  sorry,  but  I’m  not  much  sur- 
prised,” was  his  comment  upon  the  various  revela- 
tions made  to  him. 

“You  are  not  surprised?”  echoed  James. 
“Surely  you  ought  to  be!” 

“ Well,  I am  surprised  to  hear  that  the  story  is 
true;  I didn’t  think  it  could  be.  But  I don’t  won- 
der at  her  having  taken  it  terribly  to  heart.  She 
is  very  proud,  you  see.” 

“Ah!  you  understand  her,  perhaps,  better  than 
I do,”  said  James,  humbly  enough,  “ and  you  blame 
me,  I dare  say,  more  than  I had  thought  it  necessary 
to  blame  myself.  With  the  best  intentions,  I have, 
no  doubt,  been  to  blame;  but  that  is  of  secondary 
importance  now.  What  is  important  and  urgent  is 
that  she  should  be  traced  and  brought  home  at 
once.” 

“ Yes — if  that  can  be  done,”  agreed  the  young 
man  dubiously.  . 

“ You  don’t  mean  to  say  that  you  think  it  can’t 
be  done!  One  shrinks  from  raising  a hue  and  cry, 
but ” 

“ Oh,  there  must  be  no  hue  and  cry,”  interrupted 
Fitzroy  with  a decision  which  rather  astonished  one 
who  was  more  accustomed  to  give  orders  than  to  re- 
ceive them;  “ that  would  be  fatal.  Your  object,  of 
course,  is  to  keep  the  thing  dark,  and  it  may  still, 
with  luck  and  care,  be  kept  dark,  I should  hope.” 

“ My  object,”  said  James,  “ is  to  find  Cuckoo  and 
induce  her  to  return  home.” 


FLIGHT. 


2G9 


“ Yes;  but  you  can’t  wish  everybody  to  hear  of 
her  escapade  and  chatter  about  it.  At  present  the 
servants  think  that  she  has  gone  away  on  a visit,  and 
only  the  servants  know  that  she  has  gone  away 
at  all.  Suppose  you  were  to  do  nothing  and  say 
nothing  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours?  ” 

Janies  stared.  “ You  have  some  idea  in  your 
head,  I presume,”  he  answered,  “but  I don’t  follow 
you.  What  is  to  be  gained  by  giving  her  another 
twenty-four  hours’  start?” 

Fitzroy  was  not  prepared  to  say,  nor  did  he  feel 
disposed  to  mention  the  idea  that  he  had  in  his 
head,  but  it  struck  him  as  rather  odd  that  the  same 
idea  should  have  failed  to  find  its  way  into  a head 
so  clear  as  that  of  his  distinguished  uncle.  Either 
Cuckoo  had  decamped  alone — in  which  case  there 
was  no  absolute  necessity  for  hurry — or  else  she  had 
been  so  accompanied  that  hurry  could  not  now  res- 
cue her  from  her  fate.  After  some  further  parley, 
James  was  persuaded  to  promise  that  he  would  not 
for  the  present  employ  private  detective  agencies  or 
give  information  at  Scotland  Yard. 

“ If  you  will  make  inquiries  at  the  railway  sta- 
tions,” Fitzroy  said,  “ I’ll  take  a rather  wider  cast, 
and  depend  upon  it  we  shall  puzzle  out  the  secret 
between  us.  Anyhow,  let  us  not  admit  the  world 
into  our  confidence  before  we  are  obliged.” 

The  wider  cast  which  recommended  itself  to  this 
astute  young  man  led  him,  in  the  first  instance,  to 
Chesham  Place,  where  he  had  the  great  satisfaction 
of  ascertaining  that  Mr.  Carew  had  just  come  home. 
Not  having  anything  to  say  to  Mr.  Carew,  he  left 


270 


THE  WIDOWER. 


a couple  of  cards  and  went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 
The  worst  that  could  have  happened  had  evidently 
not  happened,  so  that  a man  might  eat  his  dinner 
in  peace  and  reflect  at  his  leisure  upon  the  next  step 
that  it  behooved  him  to  take. 

Now,  it  so  chanced  that  certain  military  duties 
prevented  Fitzroy  from  taking  any  step  at  all  until 
the  luncheon  hour  on  the  next  day,  when  his  dis- 
missed fears  were  brought  back  to  him  with  a rush 
by  the  receipt  of  the  following  note: 

“ Dear  Mr.  Pennant:  Am  I wrong  in  thinking 
that  you  called  yesterday  evening  for  a particular 
reason ? You  so  seldom  call  here  that  I feel  almost 
sure  your  visit  must  have  been  connected  with  a 
horrible  catastrophe  which  threatens  me  and  your 
family . Even  if  I am  mistaken  about  that,  I can 
not  be  mistaken  in  begging  you  to  come  and  see  me 
without  a moments  loss  of  time.  I have  not  yet 
sent  any  message  to  your  uncle,  but  must  do  so 
unless  you  are  here  by  four  o’clock. 

“ Yours  truly, 

Julia  Carew.” 

Within  half  an  hour  Fitzroy  was  seated  beside 
the  weeping  Mrs.  Carew  and  had  perused  a foreign 
telegram,  addressed  to  her  husband,  which  she  con- 
fessed to  have  intercepted.  She  was  authorized,  she 
explained,  to  open  his  telegrams,  which  related,  as  a 
rule,  to  racing  matters,  and,  as  he  was  even  now  ab- 
sent for  the  day  at  a race  meeting,  she  had  innocently 
made  a discovery  which  would,  she  thought,  shock 


FLIGHT. 


271 


and  grieve  Cuckoo  Pennant’s  relations  as  much  as 
it  had  done  her. 

Shocking  and  grievous  that  flimsy  slip  of  paper 
undoubtedly  was,  with  its  terribly  unequivocal  sum- 
mons: “ Have  crossed  the  Eubicon.  Come  to  me 
here  by  night  mail.  Will  meet  you  at  Gare  du  Nord 
in  morning. — Cuckoo.”  There  was  no  explaining 
away  such  a summons  as  that;  yet  Fitzroy  did  what 
seemed  practicable. 

“ The  fact  is,”  said  he,“  I tell  you  this,  but  I am 
sure  you  will  be  kind  enough  not  to  repeat  it,  that 
my  uncle  and  my  cousin  have  had  a little  difference, 
and  that  she  has  very  foolishly  run  away  from  home. 
Now  that  we  know  she  is  in  Paris  we  shall  eas- 
ily induce  her  to  return,  I have  no  doubt,  and  the 
whole  silly  business  can  be  hushed  up.  As  for  this 
telegram  to  your  husband,  it  probably  sounds  a great 
deal  worse  than  it  is  meant  to  be.  He  has  been  a 
great  friend  of  Cuckoo’s,  as  you  know,  and  I believe 
she  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  she  has  hardly 
any  friends.  Most  likely  she  only  wants  to  consult 
him,  and  does  not  realise ” 

“ That,”  interrupted  Mrs.  Carew,  blowing  her 
nose  violently,  “ is  utter  nonsense!” 

“ My  dear  lady,  even  if  it  were  utter  nonsense, 
we  should  have  to  make  sense  of  it.  Surely  you 
must  see  that.  But  I don’t  for  a moment  admit 
that  it  is  nonsense.  Your  husband,  of  course,  would 
not  have  gone  to  Paris  if  the  telegram  had  reached 
his  hands;  as  a man  of  the  world  he  would  have  per- 
ceived immediately  that  he  could  not  compromise 
an  inexperienced  girl  in  that  way.  Still,  it  is  de- 


272 


THE  WIDOWER. 


sirable  for  everybody’s  sake  that  the  telegram  should 
be  destroyed,  and  if  you  will  kindly  excuse  my  tear- 
ing it  up — thank  you! — I will  take  the  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  having  done  so  upon  my  own  shoul- 
ders. Now  there  is  no  reason  that  I know  of  why 
another  word  should  ever  be  said  about  the  matter.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that,  after  what  they  have  done 
— for  it  stands  to  reason  that  all  this  was  precon- 
certed— they  are  to  be  allowed  to  escape  scot-free?  ” 
“ Can  you,”  Fitzroy  inquired,  “ suggest  any  al- 
ternative that  you  would  prefer?  My  cousin’s  char- 
acter is,  I admit,  more  or  less  at  your  mercy,  but  I 
can  not  think  that  you  are  seriously  jealous  of  her 
or  that  you  wish  to  spoil  her  life.  And  if  it  comes 

to  the  question  of  your  own  life ” 

“ Oh,  that  is  spoilt  already!”  the  long-suffering 
woman  declared. 

“ Well,  I don’t  know  how  that  may  be;  but  it 
seems  to  me,  if  I may  take  the  liberty  of  saying  so, 
that  you  have  more  to  hope  for  from  silence  than 
from  speech  in  this  case.  After  all,  you  can’t  prove 
anything  against  Mr.  Carew,  and  why  should  you 
wish  to  prove  anything?” 

“ Why,  indeed?  ” Julia  sighed  and  reflected  that 
she  had  not  submitted  to  what  she  had  so  many 
times  endured  in  order  to  kick  the  conjugal  harness 
to  pieces  at  that  time  of  day.  Nevertheless,  she  was 
of  opinion  that  the  deceitful  Cuckoo  merited  some 
punishment,  and  she  intimated  as  much. 

“ I think,”  answered  Fitzroy  dryly,  “ that  there 
is  a very  good  chance  for  her  being  punished.  Sup- 
pose— but  that  is  your  supposition,  not  mine — she 


FLIGHT. 


273 


really  contemplated  providing  you  with  good  cause 
for  divorcing  Mr.  Carew,  don't  you  think  it  would 
be  rather  a slap  in  the  face  for  her  to  find  that  he  has 
no  notion  of  being  divorced?  And,  in  any  case, 
isn't  it  certain  that  an  uncommonly  nasty  quarter 
of  an  hour  with  her  father  awaits  her?  Oh,  you 
need  not  be  at  all  afraid  of  her  getting  out  of  this 
unscathed." 

He  himself  was  hardly  chivalrous  enough  to  wish 
that  she  should,  yet  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  transfer  to  the  formidable  Uncle  James  an  ap- 
pointment which  Harry  Carew  had,  happily,  been 
precluded  from  keeping,  and  which  might,  without 
any  insuperable  difficulty,  be  appropriated  by  a less 
severe  censor.  Fitzroy  hastened  to  solicit,  and  was 
successful  in  obtaining,  leave  to  absent  himself  from 
London  for  a day  or  two,  immediately  after  which 
he  telegraphed  to  Ennismore  Gardens:  “All  right. 
Have  picked  up  scent  and  will  wire  again  to-mor- 
row. Keep  quiet  until  you  hear." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 

The  sun  had  but  just  risen  above  the  mists  that 
hung  over  the  horizon  when  a young  lady  who  ought 
to  have  been  fast  asleep  in  bed  emerged  noiselessly 
from  the  flat  rented  by  blameless  Madame  Voisin, 
and  hurrying  down  the  common  staircase  had  some 
ado  to  arouse  a naturally  indignant  concierge . Or- 
ders from  without  and  growls  from  within  resulted, 
however,  at  length  in  the  pulling  of  the  string  which 
opened  a small  door  in  the  heavy  gates,  and  pres- 
ently Cuckoo  stood  in  the  broad,  deserted  street — 
an  emancipated  being,  with  the  best  part  of  the 
average  duration  of  human  existence  still  before  her. 

In  another  sense  the  best  part  of  her  personal 
existence  probably  lay  behind  her.  She  was  well 
aware  of  that,  and  little  inclined  to  look  forward 
into  the  alarmingly  uncertain  future  which,  after 
due  deliberation,  she  had  chosen  for  herself.  Yet, 
as  she  stepped  resolutely  on  to  meet  her  fate,  she 
was  sensible  at  least  of  that  relief  and  exhilaration 
which  follow  the  irrevocable  casting  of  the  die — con- 
vinced, too,  that  the  decision  which  she  had  taken 
had  been  forced  upon  her  by  circumstances  for 
which  others  were  responsible.  If  in  the  recesses 
274 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


275 

t 

of  her  mind  there  lurked  also  an  exceedingly  foolish 
exultation  over  the  grief  and  remorse  which  her  ac- 
tion would  bring  upon  others,  some  of  us — remem- 
bering our  own  distant  childhood,  when  we  used  to 
put  ourselves  to  extreme  inconvenience,  hoping 
thereby  to  plant  a dagger  in  the  callous  hearts  of  our 
elders — will  not  be  too  hard  upon  her.  Only  in 
mature  life  do  we  acquire  the  melancholy  certitude 
that  “ others  ” care  a good  deal  less  than  might  be 
supposed  whether  we  are  inconvenienced  or  not. 

So  Cuckoo,  with  head  erect  and  chin  defiantly 
thrust  forward,  traversed  the  highways  and  byways 
of  a city  which  is  always  briskly  matutinal  and  which 
on  that  lovely  pearl-gray  morning  appeared  to  en- 
courage her  with  a certain  air  of  benevolent  sanction 
and  approval.  She  was,  after  all,  a Frenchwoman 
who  had  returned  to  her  native  soil,  and  France, 
symbolized  by  those  tall  white  houses,  those  sun- 
smitten  roofs,  those  freshly  sluiced  thoroughfares, 
that  indescribable  smell  of  Paris  which  is  to  a Pari- 
sian what  the  skirl  of  the  pipes  are  to  a Highlander, 
seemed  to  be  extending  kindly  thanks  of  welcome 
to  her. 

It  was  no  Frenchman,  to  be  sure,  whom  she  was 
on  her  way  to  greet,  nor,  if  she  had  dared  to  examine 
herself  (but  her  valour  did  not  extend  quite  so  far) 
would  she  have  found  that  she  had  any  very  enthu- 
siastic welcome  at  his  service.  Like  the  inanimate 
objects  to  which  she  preferred  to  give  her  attention, 
he  was  a mere  symbol,  representing  liberty,  new  de- 
partures, possibly  a sort  of  revenge  upon  the  past 
into  the  bargain.  But  when  the  little  voiture  de  place 


276 


THE  WIDOWER. 


which  she  hailed  after  a time  had  deposited  her  at 
the  terminus,  and  when  she  had  been  admitted  to 
the  platform  at  which  the  mail  train  from  Calais 
must  presently  draw  up,  it  became  all  of  a sudden 
necessary  to  view  Harry  Carew  under  a less  imper- 
sonal aspect,  and  with  that  dire  necessity  there  fell 
upon  poor  Cuckoo  an  intense,  craven  longing  to 
take  to  her  heels.  The  longing,  of  course,  had  to 
be  resisted,  and  was  resisted;  but  if,  by  a miracle, 
her  telegram  of  the  previous  day  could  have  been 
recalled,  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  this  bold 
intrigante  would  then  and  there  have  most  thank- 
fully recalled  it. 

Her  heart  thumped  against  her  ribs  as  the  huge, 
gleaming  engine,  with  its  long  train  of  carriages 
behind  it,  came  clanging  and  clattering  under  the 
glass  roof.  The  doors  were  flung  open,  the  passen- 
gers poured  forth;  she  stood  motionless,  with  cold 
hands,  a throbbing  head,  and  eager  eyes — eyes  that 
were  eager,  not  to  descry  a well-known  figure,  but 
to  detect  its  absence  from  the  throng.  And  oh, 
what  a thrice-blessed  disappointment  it  was  to  as- 
certain beyond  a doubt  that  Harry  Carew  was  not 
one  of  those  cross,  sleepy,  dishevelled  passengers! 
Half  a dozen  explanations  rushed  at  once  into  her 
relieved  mind.  The  telegram  had  miscarried;  Harry 
had  been  prevented  from  starting,  or  had  missed  his 
train — what  did  it  matter?  He  had,  in  any  case, 
missed  his  opportunity,  and  a second  one  should  not 
— no,  most  assuredly  it  should  not! — be  granted  to 
him.  So  thankful,  so  bewildered,  so  preoccupied 
was  she  that  she  never  noticed  the  advance  of  a pas- 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


277 


senger  who  looked  neither  cross,  sleepy,  nor  dishev- 
elled, and  not  until  he  was  within  two  paces  of  her 
did  she  spring  back,  exclaiming: 

“Fitz!  oh,  what  has  made  you  do  this?” 

“ Don’t  you  think  that  question  would  come 
rather  more  appropriately  from  me  to  you?”  re- 
turned the  young  man,  smiling. 

With  a quick  gesture  she  raised  both  her  hands 
to  her  temples,  frowning  at  him  in  a puzzled  way 
and  stammering  out  some  unintelligible  words.  She 
had  turned  as  white  as  a sheet. 

“For  goodness’  sake,  don’t  faint!”  he  pleaded, 
in  genuine  alarm.  “ It’s  all  right;  I’ll  explain  pres- 
ently. The — the  person  whom  you  expected  to  meet 
couldn’t  come,  so  I’ve  come  instead  of  him.” 

“You  have  come  instead  of  him?”  repeated 
Cuckoo  slowly.  “ Oh,  no;  that  can’t  be  true;  that 
would  be  much  too  good  to  be  true!” 

Evidently  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  saying, 
and  he  took  charge  of  her  with  a soothing  firmness 
to  which  she  submitted  quite  meekly.  He  had 
brought  no  luggage  with  him,  he  said,  except  the 
hand  bag  which  she  saw,  so  that  there  was  nothing 
to  prevent  them  from  driving  off  at  once. 

“ And  I don’t  know  how  you  feel.  Cuckoo,”  he 
added,  “ but  I’m  awfully  hungry.  Suppose  we  go 
and  have  breakfast  somewhere?” 

There  are  occasional  situations  in  real  life  which 
resemble  dreams,  just  as  there  are  dreams  so  ridicu- 
lously like  reality  that  it  is  difficult  afterward  to 
disentangle  them  from  the  memory  of  actual  facts. 
It  was  iii  a species  of  dream — a happy,  reposeful 


278 


THE  WIDOWER. 


sort  of  dream*  which  it  would  have  been  a thousand 
pities  to  dispel — that  Cuckoo  was  driven  through 
the  sunny  streets  of  Paris*  with  Fitzroy  seated  by  her 
side*  and  the  queer  thing  (though  it  did  not  at  the 
moment  strike  her  as  being  queer)  was  that  she 
neither  interrogated  him  nor  was  interrogated  by 
him.  They  made  remarks  upon  the  passing  ve- 
hicles and  pedestrians*  she  laughed  at  the  uncouth 
French  in  which  he  addressed  the  driver;  it  was  as 
if  they  had  been  out  for  a prearranged  holiday  to- 
gether* and  it  seemed  to  be  only  in  fulfilment  of 
some  pleasant*  unobjectionable  programme  that  they 
were  landed  at  length  in  the  courtyard  of  a big 
hotel,  where  Fitzroy  gave  sundry  instructions  to  a 
white-aproned  waiter*  and  whence*  after  a short  de- 
lay* they  moved  to  the  adjoining  restaurant.  But 
of  course  such  illusions*  however  agreeable  they  may 
be*  can  not  be  indefinitely  prolonged*  and  Cuckoo* 
as  soon  as  she  had  swallowed  a cup  of  coffee  and 
part  of  an  omelette  aux  fines  herles * came  abruptly 
to  the  point  with: 

“ What  does  it  all  mean*  Fitz  ? ” 

“ It  means*”  answered  her  companion*  “ that  a 
misfortune  which  might  have  happened  isn't  going 
to  happen,  and  that  the  less  we  say  or  think  about 
what  might  have  been  the  better.  I can  see  by 
your  face  that  you  are  glad;  thaPs  quite  enough 
for  me.” 

“ Is  it?  Yes*  I am  glad — and  grateful*  too.  But 
how  and  why  has  it  come  to  pass  that  you  are  here? 
You  said  you  would  explain.” 

Explanations  were,  indeed,  obviously  required* 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


279 


and  he  furnished  her  with  them  in  language  as  suc- 
cinct as  he  could  make  it.  “ Don’t  make  yourself 
unhappy/’  he  said  in  conclusion;  “ the  whole  stupid 
thing  will  be  buried  out  of  sight.  Mrs.  Carew  has 
every  motive  for  keeping  what  she  knows  to  herself, 
and  it  is  not  I who  shall  betray  you.” 

Cuckoo  drew  a long  breath.  “ I suppose/’  she 
remarked  presently,  “ you  think  that  I did  a very 
stupid  thing  when  I despatched  that  telegram.” 

“ Well,  what  do  you  think  yourself?  It  would 
have  been  stupid  and  calamitous  even  if  you  had 
cared  for  that  good-for-nothing  chap;  but  as  I am 
quite  sure  now  that  you  don’t  care  a button  for  him, 
why  I must  make  so  bold  as  to  say  that  you  have  had 
an  uncommonly  lucky  escape.” 

“ Yes,  but  you  see  I thought  he  was  the  only 
friend  I had  in  the  wrorld.  How  could  I guess  that 
you,  of  all  people,  would  take  so  much  trouble  to 
save  me?  ” 

“ I don’t  call  that  a very  kind  speech  to  make. 
Cuckoo,  and  I don’t  think  I have  deserved  it  either. 
You  ought  to  know,  if  you  don’t  know,  that  I would 
cut  off  my  right  hand  rather  than  let  you  come  to 
harm.” 

She  gazed  at  him  wonderingly  and  meditatively. 
Exaggerated  though  such  a statement  doubtless  was, 
she  liked  to  hear  him  utter  it.  It  was  pleasant,  too, 
to  be  forced  to  recognise  in  him  a fertility  of  resource 
and  a capacity  for  taking  command  with  which  she 
had  hitherto  seen  no  cause  to  credit  him.  She  did 
not,  however,  give  verbal  expression  to  the  thoughts 
that  were  in  her  mind,  but  only  asked,  after  a pause: 


280 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“And  what  are  we  going  to  do  now? — for  the 
rest  of  the  day,  I mean?  " 

“ I don't  quite  know;  it  will  have  to  depend. 
Where  are  you  staying?" 

It  was  with  sincere  satisfaction  that  he  learned 
under  whose  unexceptionable  wing  she  had  been 
sheltering  herself  since  her  flight.  He  said  that  was 
first-rate,  and  proposed  without  further  delay  to  reas- 
sure Madame  Voisin,  who  was  probably  scared  out 
of  her  wits  by  that  time. 

Cuckoo  at  first  demurred,  but  ended  by  giving  in. 
“After  all,  one  may  as  well  regain  possession  of 
one's  clothes,"  she  remarked,  “ and  I can  make  up 
some  story  about  my  having  gone  out  to  meet  you. 
Only,  you  know,  Fitz,  whatever  happens,  I am  not 
going  to  stay  with  dear  old  Madame  Voisin.  She 
is  a broken  reed,  unfortunately,  though  she  has  the 
kindest  intentions." 

“ You  are  going,  I hope,"  answered  Fitzroy,  “ to 
return  with  me,  either  this  evening  or  to-morrow 
morning,  to  your  father." 

“ My  father  died,  I don't  know  how  many  years 
ago." 

“ You  are  going  to  return  to  my  uncle,  then,  if 
you  prefer  to  call  him  by  that  name." 

She  pointed  out  to  him  so  emphatically  and  de- 
cisively the  utter  inadmissibility  of  such  a procedure, 
and  she  grew  so  agitated  over  it  that  he  did  not  insist." 
All  he  stipulated  for  was  that  Madame  Voisin's  mind 
should  be  set  at  rest  as  soon  as  might  be.  “ Then  if 
the  old  lady  doesn't  object — and  I don't  see  why  she 
should,  considering  that  we  are  first  cousins " 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


281 


“ But  we  aren’t! 99 

“ It’s  the  same  thing.  I was  going  to  say  that, 
if  she  didn’t  consider  it  too  inconvenable,  we  might 
drive  out  to  the  Bois  or  somewhere  and  spend  a quiet 
afternoon  together,  talking  matters  over.” 

He  left  her  for  a few  minutes,  while  he  hastened 
into  the  neighbouring  telegraph  office,  and  when  he 
reappeared  she  professed  herself  willing  to  obey  or- 
ders. Perhaps  she  rather  enjoyed  receiving  orders 
from  that  quarter;  in  any  case,  it  would  be  as  easy 
for  her  to  proclaim  her  independence  at  one  time  as 
at  another. 

As  for  good  Madame  Yoisin,  no  sooner  did  she 
behold  the  evasive  Cuckoo  turning  up  again,  escorted 
by  a young  man  of  pleasing  exterior,  than  she 
jumped  to  conclusions  which  did  not  lack  plausibil- 
ity, wide  of  the  mark  though  they  happened  to  be. 
Of  course,  she  had  to  assume  a mien  of  scandalized 
severity  and  rebuke  conduct  which,  she  declared, 
was  of  a nature  to  reflect  discredit  upon  the  estab- 
lishment; but  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  sym- 
pathized warmly  with  a couple  whom  she  took  to 
be  thwarted  lovers,  and  wondered  what  Mr.  Pennant 
could  have  been  thinking  of  to  reject  this  handsome 
and  well-mannered  nephew  of  his.  Nevertheless,  she 
was  not  inclined  to  let  Cuckoo  out  of  her  sight  a 
second  time,  and  only  after  Fitzroy  had  drawn  her 
aside  to  make  announcements  which,  if  true,  were  at 
once  tranquillizing  and  puzzling  was  she  prevailed 
upon  to  sanction  that  projected  expedition  to  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne. 

“ You  bewilder  me,  monsieur,”  she  frankly  con- 


2S2 


THE  WIDOWER. 


fessed.  “ You  came  to  Paris,  you  say,  in  search  of 
mademoiselle — ga  se  comprend.  But  I do  not  under- 
stand your  having  sent  the  message  that  you  speak 
of.  However,  if  you  will  swear  to  bring  her  back  to 
me  before  the  evening ” 

“ Oh,  oui,  je  jure!”  answered  Fitzroy,  in  his 
Britannic  French.  “ Ce  n’est  pas  ce  que  vous  pen- 
sez;  it’s  all  right.  Seulement  il  faut  que  je  lui  parle 
en — what  do  you  call  it? — in  private,  et  il  faut 
absolument  Famuser  jusqu’a  demain.  Vous  com- 
prenez  ? ” 

Madame  Yoisin  could  not  truthfully  reply  that 
she  did,  but  she  ended  by  accepting  Fitzroy’s  word 
and  allowing  the  young  people  to  leave  the  house  to- 
gether— which,  to  be  sure,  was  all  that  was  required 
of  her. 

Something  very  much  more  difficult  than  that  was 
required  of  the  young  gentleman  who,  with  so  tine 
a confidence  in  his  own  capacity,  had  undertaken  the 
management  of  a ticklish  job.  He  began  to  realize 
this  soon  after  Cuckoo  and  he  had  established  them- 
selves comfortably  on  a bench  in  one  of  the  more  se- 
questered alleys  of  the  Bois,  for  nothing  that  he  had 
urged  thus  far  in  favour  of  a rational  course  had 
availed  to  shake  his  companion’s  resolution  in  the 
smallest  degree.  She  did  not,  she  confessed,  know 
what  was  going  to  become  of  her,  but  she  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  was  not  going  to  be  her  destiny, 
and  she  counselled  him  to  waste  no  further  breath 
upon  advocacy  of  the  impossible. 

“ I wouldn’t  go  back  for  the  world;  but  even  if 
I wanted  to  go  back,  I doubt  whether  he  would  re- 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


283 


ceive  me,  after  hearing  that  I had  done  my  best  to 
run  away  with  Mr.  Carew.  And  he  would  certainly 
hear  that,  because  the  first  thing  I should  do  would 
be  to  tell  him.” 

“What  could  have  possessed  you  to  dream  of 
running  away  with  a man  whom  you  don’t  love!  ” 

“ Oh,  it  doesn’t  matter — but  any  woman  could 
tell  you.  Men  are  different,  I suppose;  yet  even 
men  do  incomprehensible  things  sometimes.  Your 
being  here  at  this  moment,  for  instance,  is  rather 
incomprehensible  to  me,  though  I don’t  quarrel  with 
you  for  being  here.  Heaven  knows!  ” 

“ I shall  always  be  anywhere  at  any  moment 
when  you  want  me,  Cuckoo,  if  only  you  will  give  me 
a sign,”  the  young  man  declared  emphatically. 
“ But,  as  a general  rule,  you  prefer  my  room  to  my 
company,  don’t  you?” 

She  made  no  answer;  she  was  gazing  absent- 
mindedly  at  the  limited  prospect  of  sunlight  and 
shadow  on  the  sward  and  at  the  trees  beyond,  which 
were  stirred  by  a light  breeze.  Presently  she  re- 
marked: 

“ There  is  no  time  like  the  present — except,  per- 
haps, scraps  of  the  past — and  the  future  doesn’t  look 
particularly  smiling.  Suppose  we  make  up  our  minds 
to  enjoy  to-day,  which  for  all  I know  may  be  the 
very  last  of  my  pleasant  days,  and  suppose  we  for- 
get everything,  except  that  you  and  I are  the  Fitz 
and  Cuckoo  who  were  the  best  of  friends  once  upon 
a time?  It  seems  such  a dreadful  waste  of  good 
hours  that  will  never  come  back  to  spend  them  in 
useless  argument?  Do  you  think  we  might  stay 
19 


284 


THE  WIDOWER. 


where  we  are  until  evening,  and  then  dine  together 
at  some  restaurant?  We  could  dine  quite  early,  so 
as  to  give  you  plenty  of  time  to  catch  the  night  mail 
for  London.” 

“ Yes;  I don’t  see  why  we  shouldn’t,”  answered 
Fitzroy,  after  a momentary  hesitation. 

“ That’s  agreed,  then!  And  now,  if  you  please, 
we  won’t  say  another  word  about  disagreeable  sub- 
jects.” 

That  stipulation,  it  will  be  perceived,  left  them 
with  a rather  narrow  range;  but,  somehow  or  other, 
it  proved  wide  enough  to  content  them.  What  did 
they  find  to  talk  about  while  the  sun  was  sloping  so 
deliberately,  yet  so  inexorably,  toward  the  west,  and 
while  the  train  which  was  bringing  James  Pennant 
to  Paris  to  claim  his  adopted  daughter  was  devour- 
ing space?  Fitzroy  would  have  been  puzzled  after- 
ward to  give  any  detailed  account  of  their  conversa- 
tion; all  he  knew  was  that,  whatever  their  words 
may  have  been,  they  were  thinking  about  something 
else  the  whole  time — something  which  became  clearer 
and  clearer  as  the  hours  slipped  away — something 
which,  alas!  ought  to  have  been  made  clear  long  be- 
fore. Did  she  understand  that  he  had  loved  her  in 
the  days  of  his  clumsy  puppyhood,  that  he  loved  her 
still,  and  would  love  her  as  long  as  his  life  should 
last?  For  his  part,  he  understood  well  enough — he 
was  too  simple  and  straightforward  to  doubt  it — that 
she  had  loved  him  all  along  and  had  only  snubbed 
him  for  that  very  reason.  Perhaps  she  did  not  care, 
now  that  they  were  upon  the  brink  of  parting,  to  dis- 
guise the  truth;  perhaps  she  was  aware  that  there 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


235 


were  causes  quite  distinct  from  the  mad  resolution 
which  she  professed  to  have  taken  which  must  com- 
pel them  to  part.  Anyhow,  it  behooved  him,  as  an 
honourable  man,  to  make  some  allusion  to  these 
causes,  and  he  ended  by  doing  so  in  an  abrupt,  con- 
strained voice. 

“ By  the  way,  you  have  heard,  I dare  say,  that  I 
am  going  to  be  married?  ” 

“ I heard,”  answered  Cuckoo  steadily,  “ that  you 
were  going  to  propose  to  Lady  Elizabeth  Tufnell; 
I did  not  know  that  you  had  actually  done  it.  I 
hope  you  will  be  very  happy  with  her.” 

That  much,  or  something  like  that,  had  to  be 
said,  and  nothing  more  was  said.  It  was  evident 
that  Fitzroy  was  not  going  to  be  very  happy,  and 
equally  evident  that  he  must  do  his  duty.  As  for 
Cuckoo,  she  had  had  a happy  afternoon,  which  was 
now  over;  yet  it  had  brought  her  something  which 
would  remain  a possession  forever,  through  good  or 
evil  fortune.  Many  of  us,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
find,  as  we  near  the  grave,  that  such  intangible  pos- 
sessions are  our  best  and  dearest. 

In  the  meantime,  that  tete-a-tete  dinner  at  a re- 
nowned restaurant  could  not  be  made  a brilliant  suc- 
cess, although  Fitzroy  took  a good  deal  of  trouble 
about  ordering  it.  What  sort  of  an  appetite,  indeed, 
could  he  bring  to  bear  upon  the  delicacies  set  before 
him  wdiile  he  was  inwardly  cursing  himself  for  the 
stupid  blindness  which  had  spoiled  two  lives?  And 
the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  could  not  help  perceiving 
what  a cruel  disillusionment  he  had  inflicted  upon 
the  girl  whom  he  loved.  She  had  evidently  ascribed 


286 


THE  WIDOWER. 


his  pursuit  of  her  to  motives  which  in  truth  existed 
(little  as  he  had  been  aware  of  their  existence  when 
he  set  out,  and  what  must  she  be  thinking  now  of 
his  officious  interference! 

Had  he  been  able  to  read  her  thoughts,  he  would 
have  discovered  that  she  was  neither  incensed  against 
him  nor  very  deeply  disappointed.  She  was  even,  in 
a sense,  triumphant;  for  had  she  not  gained  all  that 
it  was  possible  for  her  to  gain?  If  Fitzroy  had  been 
free  and  had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  declined  the  offer.  It  would,  by  her 
rather  perverse  way  of  thinking,  have  been  entirely 
out  of  the  question  for  her  to  ally  herself  with  a 
family  to  which  she  had  been  falsely  represented  as 
belonging,  and  which  desired — excusably  enough — 
to  see  no  more  of  her.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  permissi- 
ble to  regret  that  Fitzroy  had  chosen  as  his  bride  the 
particular  person  whom  he  had  chosen,  but  at  least 
there  was  no  occasion  to  be  jealous  of  Lady  Elizabeth 
Tufnell.  So  Cuckoo  played  her  part  at  the  little 
banquet  somewhat  more  felicitously  than  her  enter- 
tainer, and  when  the  time  came  to  say  farewell,  she 
displayed  a brisk  determination  to  steer  clear  of  sen- 
timentality. 

“ Oh,  no,  you  mustn’t  come  back  to  Madame 
Voisin’s  with  me,”  said  she  in  answer  to  his  proposal; 
“ you  must  be  off  to  the  station,  or  you  will  be  too  late 
for  your  train.  Don’t  look  so  suspicious;  I assure 
you  I have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  drowning 
myself  in  the  Seine,  and  if  you  will  call  a fiacre  for 
me  I will  proceed  straight  to  my  clothes,  which  I 
really  can’t  afford  to  lose.” 


ONE  GOOD  DAY. 


287 


“ And  when  you  reach  your  clothes?  ” 

“ I shall  take  them  away  with  me,  I suppose. 
But  not  until  to-morrow,  and  not  surreptitiously.  I 
am  going  to  earn  my  bread  somewhere,  though  I 
don’t  at  present  know  for  certain  where,  and  I am 
quite  capable  of  doing  so.  Consequently,  you  need 
not  send  me  out  into  the  wilderness  with  such  a long 
face  as  that  to  remember  you  by.” 

Fitzroy  had  opened  his  lips  to  make  some  rejoin- 
der when,  to  his  deep  discomfiture,  he  was  hailed  by 
a jovial  old  gentleman  with  wdiom  both  Cuckoo  and 
he  were  slightly  acquainted,  and  who  at  that  mo- 
ment sallied  forth  from  the  restaurant,  followed  by 
his  wife  and  his  two  daughters. 

“ We  saw  you  dining  together,”  this  tactless  indi- 
vidual called  out;  “but  you  wouldn’t  look  at  us. 
How  do  you  do,  Miss  Pennant?  Is  your  father  in 
Paris?  What  an  original  proceeding  on  his  part  to 
leave  London  in  the  very  middle  of  a political  cri- 
sis! ” 

“ He  has  not  left  London,”  Cuckoo  replied  com- 
posedly. “ I am  staying  here  with  an  old  friend.” 

Fitzroy  showed  less  presence  of  mind.  He  stam- 
mered, reddened,  and  was  so  obviously  uncomfortable 
that  he  rendered  the  indiscreet  intruder  equally  so. 
The  latter  murmured  that  they  were  bound  for  a 
theatre  and  had  no  time  to  lose;  the  ladies,  staring 
at  Cuckoo  in  unconcealed  wonderment,  bowed  stiffly 
to  her  as  they  passed  out;  the  whole  episode  occu- 
pied barely  a minute. 

“ What  horrid  bad  luck!  ” ejaculated  Fitzroy  in 
great  vexation. 


288 


THE  WIDOWER. 


But  Cuckoo  declared  that  it  did  not  matter  a bit. 
“ In  a few  days  everybody  will  know  that  I have  dis- 
appeared, and  I can’t  be  accused  of  having  disap- 
peared with  you,  since  you  will  be  back  in  London 
to  answer  for  yourself.  Besides,  London  is  heartily 
welcome  to  say  what  it  pleases  about  me  now.  Good- 
bye, Fitz;  think  of  me  sometimes.  I shall  not  forget 
you,  you  may  be  sure — nor  what  I owe  to  you.” 

She  was  in  the  fiacre  and  away  before  he  could 
do  more  than  squeeze  her  hand.  That  way  of  part- 
ing was  perhaps  as  good  as  another,  since  part  they 
must;  but  his  heart  ached  as  he  gazed  after  the  lum- 
bering equipage.  He  knew,  or  thought  he  knew, 
that  Cuckoo  and  he  would  meet  again  sooner  than 
she  expected;  but  he  also  knew  that  never  more 
could  they  meet  upon  the  old  terms. 

“ Well,  we  have  had  one  pretty  good  day,”  he 
sighed.  “It  isn't  a big  allowance,  but  it's  all  we 
are  likely  to  get,  either  of  us! '' 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER. 

We  poor  mortals  are  so  constituted  that  after  a 
really  heroic  manifestation  of  self-sacrifice,  nearly 
all  of  us — possibly  even  all — begin  to  suffer  from  that 
reaction  which  is  one  of  the  conditions  of  our  ex- 
istence and  to  wonder  whether  we  have  not  been 
rather  geese  for  our  pains.  It  always  takes  a little 
time,  and  sometimes  a long  time,  to  realize  that  one 
may  easily  resemble  a more  ignoble  creature  than  a 
goose.  Cuckoo,  jolting  toward  her  destination  in 
the  musty  fiacre , and  knowing  full  well  what  her 
prospects  were,  could  not  help  dwelling  with  some- 
thing akin  to  regret  upon  the  prospect  which  she 
had  resolutely  cast  away.  At  a word  from  her — why 
should  she  attempt  or  affect  to  deceive  herself  when 
she  felt  no  doubt  about  the  matter? — Fitzroy  would 
have  flung  his  plighted  troth  to  the  winds,  would 
have  left  his  Lady  Elizabeth  to  console  herself  with 
some  more  congenial  partner,  and  would  have  saved 
his  own  love,  who  loved  him,  from  a life  of  dull,  per- 
petual hardship.  Conventionally  speaking,  it  would, 
of  course,  have  been  dishonourable  on  his  part  to 
act  in  that  way;  but  what,  after  all,  are  conventional- 
ities worth?  When  it  comes  to  the  push,  they  are 

289 


290 


THE  WIDOWER. 


not,  in  truth,  worth  quite  so  much  as  they  appear  to 
he;  yet,  such  as  they  are,  we  can  not  ignore  them 
with  impunity,  and  doubtless  it  is  well  for  us  that 
we  can  not.  Cuckoo,  at  all  events,  had  the  comfort 
of  knowing  that,  in  deference  to  them,  she  had  pun- 
ished herself  far  more  severely  than  her  unavowed 
lover.  He  would  become  reconciled  to  his  lot,  which 
was  not  an  altogether  unenviable  one,  as  lots  go, 
but  it  was  inconceivable  that  she  would  ever  learn 
to  relish  hers. 

Madame  Yoisin  came  out  to  meet  her  upon  the 
landing  in  answer  to  her  ring.  “ My  child,  you  have 
given  us  a fine  fright!  And  I who  have  been  ex- 
pecting you  since  five  o’clock!  What  have  you  done 
with  your  cousin,  then?” 

“ He  is  not  my  cousin,  and  he  has  gone  back  to 
London,”  Cuckoo  replied. 

“ Vous  m’en  direz  tant!  JEnfin!  puisque  vous 
voila ! ” 

The  good  woman  was  evidently  perturbed  and  ex- 
cited. She  did  not  listen  to  the  excuses  which  were 
offered  to  her,  nor  did  she  give  utterance  to  rebukes 
which  had  been  fairly  earned.  Presently  she  threw 
open  the  door  of  her  little  salon , but  shut  it  again 
quickly,  without  following  Cuckoo,  who  advanced 
to  find  herself  in  the  presence  of  a gentleman  busily 
engaged  in  writing  letters.  He  rose  at  once  and  laid 
down  his  pen,  holding  out  both  hands  with  what 
seemed  to  be  an  air  of  entreaty.  But  she  shrank 
back  from  him. 

“ How  did  you  find  out?  ” she  exclaimed.  “ What 
made  you  come  here?  Oh,  I wish  you  hadn’t!  ” 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER.  291 


“Can’t  you  forgive  me,  Cuckoo?”  James  asked. 
She  made  no  response  to  this  appeal,  for  the 
rather  humiliating  reason  that  she  was  unable  to 
control  her  voice.  The  surprise  was  too  sudden  and 
too  complete;  it  came  upon  her  at  a moment  when 
she  was  already  overwrought  and  unfit  to  cope  with 
fresh  opposition.  So,  instead  of  coldly  asserting  her 
right  to  do  as  she  pleased  with  a life  which,  when  all 
was  said,  belonged  to  nobody  but  herself,  she  dropped 
disgracefully  down  upon  the  nearest  chair  and  began 
to  cry  like  a baby.  Upon  the  whole,  that  was  about 
the  best  thing  that  she  could  have  done;  but,  natu- 
rally, she  did  not  think  so,  nor  did  James  Pennant 
help  her  to  recover  her  equanimity  by  throwing  his 
arm  around  her  neck  and  kissing  her  wet  cheek. 

“Oh,  don’t!”  she  sobbed;  “you  wouldn’t  if  you 
knew!  It  isn’t  that  I regret  anything.  I don’t  re- 
gret what  I have  done,  and — and  I am  going  to  do 
it  still.  It  is  only  because  I am  so  tired!  ” 

In  spite  of  this  discouraging  assertion,  he  did  not 
remove  his  arm.  He  could  be  as  gentle  and  affec- 
tionate as  a woman  upon  occasion — did  she  not  know 
that  by  previous  experience? — and  it  was  with  wom- 
anly caresses  that  he  soothed  her  now  until  at  length 
she  laid  her  head  passively  down  upon  his  shoulder 
and  her  convulsive  sobs  ceased. 

“ So  Fitzroy  has  gone  back  to  London,”  he  said. 
“ That  is  just  as  well,  perhaps,  though  I should  have 
liked  to  have  an  opportunity  of  thanking  him.  You 
were  asking  me  how  I came  to  be  here.  Simply  be- 
cause his  telegram  arrived  in  plenty  of  time  for  me 
to  pack  up  a few  things  and  catch  the  second  boat 


292 


THE  WIDOWER. 


train.  I suppose  he  did  not  tell  you  that  he  had 
telegraphed?  ” 

Cuckoo  shook  her  head.  “ No,  he  never  told  me. 
But  I might  have  guessed.” 

“ And  if  you  had  guessed,  we  should  not  have 
met — is  that  what  you  mean?  One  understands  why 
he  kept  his  own  counsel.  He  is  a good  fellow — a 
very  good  fellow!”  sighed  James  wistfully,  adding, 
after  a brief  pause,  “ I wish ” 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  nor,  indeed,  was 
there  any  need  for  him  to  do  so,  the  nature  of  the 
wish  to  which  he  made  allusion  being  so  obvious. 
Cuckoo  proved  her  comprehension  of  it  by  remark- 
ing: “He  is  going  to  be  married  to  Lady  Elizabeth 
Tufnell.” 

“ Ah,  well!  ” said  James. 

“ I don’t  think  it  is  exactly  well;  but  it  might 
have  been  worse,  no  doubt.” 

There  was  a rather  long  interval  of  silence,  dur- 
ing which  Cuckoo  gently  drew  herself  away  and  sat 
down  upon  a chair  on  the  other  side  of  Madame 
Voisin’s  stiff  little  centre  table. 

“ You  ask  no  questions,”  she  resumed  at  last; 
“ do  you  think  we  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter? Do  you  think  we  are  going  quietly  back  to 
London — you  and  I?  ” 

“ If  I were  to  answer,  ‘ Le  roi  le  vent  ’ ? ” sug- 
gested James  with  a faint  smile. 

“ Perhaps  you  could;  I don’t  know  what  power 
or  authority  the  law  may  give  you.  But  you  will 
not  when  you  have  heard  the  horrid  thing  that  I 
must  tell  you  now  in  as  few  words  as  I can.  I don’t 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER.  293 


know  whether  I am  sorry  or  glad — a little  of  both,  I 
think — but  I do  know  that  I have  made  what  you  are 
thinking  about  utterly  and  for  ever  impossible.” 

“ You  may  have  made  a bad  shot  at  what  I am 
thinking  about.  However,  you  shall  speak  first. 
Let  me  just  send  these  letters,  which  are  rather  im- 
portant, to  the  post,  and  then  I shall  be  ready  to 
listen  patiently  to  any  number  of  so-called  horrid 
things.  Only  it  would  be  a relief  to  my  mind  if  you 
could  begin  by  replying  to  the  one  question  which  I 
have  asked.  Can  you  forgive  me?” 

She  gave  him  a little  quick  nod,  swallowing  down 
the  troublesome  obstruction  in  her  throat,  with  which 
she  was  once  more  threatened. 

“ Then,”  James  declared,  “ nothing  else  really 
signifies.” 

He  left  the  room  for  a moment,  carrying  his  let- 
ters with  him,  and  on  his  return  resumed  his  seat. 
“ Now,  be  as  horrid  as  you  like,”  said  he,  smiling. 

But  Cuckoo  had  no  responsive  smile  at  his  serv- 
ice. Evidently  he  knew  nothing  and  suspected  noth- 
ing; he  was  under  the  impression  that  a petulant, 
childish  escapade  could  be  blotted  out  and  forgotten, 
that  it  would  have  no  consequences  beyond  some  pos- 
sible, but  not  very  probable,  snubs  on  the  part  of 
certain  leaders  of  London  society,  and  that  a fresh 
start  might  be  initiated  upon  lines  practically  iden- 
tical with  those  which  had  been  abandoned. 

“ If  you  knew  how  difficult  you  make  it  for  me 
with  your  generosity!”  she  exclaimed.  “But  you 
are  like  that;  you  have  always  been  like  that — and 
I am  not  like  you.  Ah,  why  should  I be,  when  I 


294 


THE  WIDOWER. 


have  nothing  to  do  with  you? — I who  am  the  child 
of  runaway  parents  and  whose  father  was  a low-born 
music  master.  Not  that  it  becomes  me  to  speak  ill 
of  them,  poor  souls!  They  at  least  ran  away  to  be 
married,  like  honest  people;  but  when  I asked  Mr. 
Carew  to  run  away  from  his  wife  and  join  me  here, 
I knew  very  well  that  I could  never  be  what  is  called 
an  honest  woman  again.  No,  not  even  if  a divorce 
should  leave  him  free  to  marry  me — which  it  is  not 
certain  that  he  would  have  done.  There,  now  you 
know  it  all.  And  Mrs.  Carew  knows  it,  and  so  does 
Fitzroy,  and — and  you  see  why  you  must  let  me 
creep  away  somewhere  and  hide  myself.” 

She  had  placed  her  elbows  upon  the  table  and 
was  resting  her  forehead  upon  her  clasped  hands. 
She  did  not  choose  to  look  at  James  Pennant;  but 
although  she  steadily  refrained  from  raising  her  eyes 
to  his  face,  she  could  see  as  plainly  as  possible  the 
expression  which  it  must  wear  after  such  an  an- 
nouncement. It  was  not  in  the  man  to  condone 
that  sort  of  thing.  Generous  he  might  be;  it  had  to 
be  owned  that  he  was  generous  and  kind  and  forgiv- 
ing. But  he  could  no  more  help  a certain  wondering 
contempt  and  disgust  for  evildoers  than  he  could 
help  treating  their  evil  deeds  with  severity.  She  had 
carried  her  point;  assuredly  he  would  neither  order 
nor  entreat  her  now  to  return  to  his  home  with  him. 

But  although,  as  a matter  of  fact,  he  did  not  give 
utterance  to  orders  or  entreaties  of  that  nature,  he 
did  something  infinitely  more  surprising  and  unlike- 
ly. For  he  rose,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  girks  shoul- 
der, and  said  quite  quietly: 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER. 


295 


“ My  dear,  you  never  intended  to  disgrace  your- 
self, and  if  Carew  had  come  when  he  was  called — 
but  you  foresaw,  perhaps,  that  he  wouldn't — you 
would  have  sent  him  about  his  business  as  soon  as 
he  appeared.  What  you  really  wanted  to  do  was  to 
burn  your  ships — to  be  able  to  confront  me  with  an 
argument  which  would  sound  irresistible." 

With  a sudden  impulse  she  caught  his  hand  and 
kissed  it.  “ 0,  father! " she  cried,  involuntarily 
using  a form  of  address  which  she  had  thought 
never  to  use  again,  “ how  did  you  know  that  that 
was  what  I wanted?  " 

But  in  an  instant  she  recollected  herself  and  went 
on  hurriedly:  “ No,  you  are  wrong;  I thought  he 
would  come.  I hoped  he  wouldn't,  but  of  course  I 
thought  he  would.  I could  not  possibly  foresee  that 
my  telegram  would  fall  into  other  hands  and  that, 
by  the  happiest  of  chances,  Fitz — oh,  no!  I can't  es- 
cape through  that  loophole." 

“ Nevertheless,  you  call  the  chance  that  brought 
Fitzroy  to  your  rescue  a happy  one." 

“ Yes — in  one  way.  Still,  the  argument  is  irre- 
sistible, isn't  it?  " 

James  calmly  admitted  that  it  was.  “ I could 
not,  under  the  circumstances,  ask  or  expect  you  to 
return  to  England,"  said  he;  “but  then  it  so  hap- 
pens that  I did  not  propose,  in  any  case,  to  ask  that 
of  you.  The  question — and  it  is  the  only  question 
of  any  importance  for  either  of  us  now — is  whether 
you  can  forgive  the  injury  that  I have  done  you  to 
the  extent  of  consenting  to  live  with  me  somewhere 
out  of  England." 


296 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Cuckoo  raised  her  troubled,  bewildered  eyes.  “ I 
don’t  understand/’  she  murmured.  “ You  can’t  live 
out  of  England — you,  a Cabinet  minister!  ” 

“ I couldn’t  if  I were  a Cabinet  minister,  but  I 
am  not.  I have  just  posted  a letter  to  explain  that 
private  and  domestic  reasons  compel  me  to  decline 
the  honour  and  to  contemplate  a somewhat  prolonged 
residence  abroad.  So  that  obstacle  .no  longer  exists.” 

“ You  have  never  been  so  insane!” 

“ Oh,  I am  as  capable  of  insane  actions  as  an- 
other; little  though  you  might  suppose  it  to  look 
at  me,  I really  am,”  answered  James,  rubbing  his 
hands,  for  he  did  feel  that  he  had  earned  the  right  to 
enjoy  himself  this  time.  “ The  letter  has  gone,  past 
recalling;  my  insanity  will  be  manifest  to  Jane  Ward- 
law  and  others  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours, 
and  it  will  be  positively  dangerous  for  me  to  show 
my  face  in  London  until  the  whole  business  has 
blown  over  and  been  forgotten.  You  see,  my  dear, 
you  are  not  the  only  person  who  knows  how  to  set 
fire  to  inconvenient  ships.” 

Cuckoo  puckered  up  her  forehead  into  anxious 
lines,  while  the  tears  slowly  filled  her  eyes  and 
brimmed  over.  “ Why  are  you  so  good?  It  is  dread- 
ful of  you  to  be  so  good!  ” she  ejaculated,  half  laugh- 
ing. 

“ I am  not  quite  so  good  as  I appear,”  he  replied, 
“ nor  are  you  half  as  bad  as  you  would  fain  have  me 
believe  you.  My  conduct,  I grant  you,  must  be  pro- 
nounced inexplicable  by  anybody  who  does  not  pos- 
sess the  key  to  it;  but  the  key,  after  all,  is  easily  dis- 
covered. Perhaps,  when  found,  it  may  even  serve  to 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER.  297 


explain  yours,  which  has  been,  you  will  allow,  at 
least  equally  eccentric.” 

“ It  has  been  abominable — disgusting!  ” the  girl 
cried.  “ But  you  have  the  key;  you  require  no  ex- 
planation. You  know — oh,  I never  could  have  im- 
agined that  you  were  so  clever! — you  know  why  I 
have  done  everything  I could  think  of  to  hurt  you; 
you  know  that  I care  more  for  you  than  for  anything 
or  anybody  else  in  the  wide  world!  ” 

Was  that  the  strict,  exact  truth?  It  was,  at  all 
events,  a near  enough  approach  to  the  truth  to  sat- 
isfy James  Pennant,  who  took  his  adopted  daughter 
in  his  arms  and  assured  her — speaking,  for  his 
part,  with  absolute  truth — that  she  could  not  have 
been  more  dear  to  him  if  she  had  been  entitled  by 
right  of  birth  to  bear  his  name.  As  for  the  sacrifice 
which  he  was  making  for  her  sake,  it  was  the  sacri- 
fice of  a pis-aller — neither  more  nor  less  than  that. 

“I  went  in  for  politics,”  he  declared,  in  answer 
to  her  protests,  “ simply  because  a disappointed  man 
must  needs  go  in  for  something.  I relinquish  public 
life,  and  any  prizes  that  it  may  have  to  offer,  without 
a pang  now,  because ” 

“ Do  you,”  interrupted  Cuckoo,  “ dare  to  say  that 
you  are  not  disappointed  in  me?” 

“ I have  that  effrontery.” 

“ Ah,  then  you  would  say  anything,  and  you  are 
beyond  reach  of  argument!  All  the  same,  you  are 
not  going  to  be  sent  into  exile  a second  time.  Rather 
than  that  should  happen  I will  return  to  Ennismore 
Gardens  with  you  to-morrow  morning.” 

But  James  Pennant  had  no  intention  either  of  re- 


298 


THE  WIDOWER. 


turning  to  Ennismore  Gardens  or  of  declining  the 
stewardship  of  the  Chiltern  Hundreds,  for  which  he 
had  already  applied;  and,  as  he  was  a resolute  man, 
he  ended  by  imposing  his  will  upon  one  who  was 
more  emotional  than  obstinate.  When  at  length 
Madame  Voisin,  whose  patience  had  been  severely 
taxed  all  this  time,  ventured  upon  a discreet  reap- 
pearance, she  was  informed,  much  to  her  amazement, 
that  her  guests  proposed  to  start  for  Italy  the  next 
day. 

“ For  Italy!  ” she  exclaimed.  “ But  why  for  Italy, 
of  all  countries  in  the  world,  at  this  season  of  the 
year?  Why  not  for  England?  ” 

“ We  think,”  answered  James,  “ that  England  has 
had  enough  of  us  for  the  present,  and  we  are  sure 
that  we  have  had  enough  of  England.  For  the  rest, 
Italy  does  not  mean  Rome  or  Naples.  We  are  bound 
for  a certain  hotel  that  we  know  of  on  the  Lago  Mag- 
giore,  where  we  spent  some  weeks  many  years  ago, 
and  which  we  have  taken  it  into  our  heads  that  we 
should  like  to  revisit.  We  rather  enjoyed  ourselves 
there,  didn’t  we,  Cuckoo.  Do  you  remember  the 
lessons  in  the  little  dark  sitting  room,  with  the  out- 
side persiennes  closed,  and  the  boat  in  which  we  used 
to  scull  about  among  the  islands  after  dinner?” 

Cuckoo  nodded,  and  left  the  room  somewhat  has- 
tily. 

“Her  nerves  are  unstrung,”  James  explained; 
“ all  things  considered,  that  is  not  surprising.  But 
change  of  air  and  scene  will  soon  put  her  right,  I 
hope.” 

Madame  Voisin  looked  dubious.  “And  the 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  A PIS-ALLER.  299 


young  man,  the  cousin?”  she  made  so  bold  as  to 
inquire.  “ What  becomes  of  him?  ” 

“ He  does  not  enter  into  the  question.” 

“ Comment  done!  he  does  not  enter  into  the  ques- 
tion? Ah,  dear  Monsieur  Pennant,  forgive  an  old 
woman  who  has  lived  a long  time  and  seen  many  mis- 
takes made — some  of  them  even,  perhaps,  by  you! 
You  have  objections,  I suppose,  to  your  nephew. 
I do  not  ask  what  they  are,  but  I implore  you  not  to 
fall  into  the  error  of  imagining  that  change  of  air 
and  scene  can  work  miracles.  These  two  young 
people  will  not  forget;  I have  watched  them,  and  I 
know!  You  may  part  them,  but  you  will  never  pre- 
vent them  from  adoring  one  another.” 

“ You  think  that  they  adore  one  another?  ” 
“Dame!  si  vous  les  aviez  vus  ensemble /” 

James  stifled  a sigh.  “ It  is  you  who  are  mistak- 
en, my  dear  Madame  Voisin,”  said  he  steadily;  “ you 
must  have  made  up  your  mind  to  see  something,  and 
fancied  that  you  saw  it.  In  reality,  my  nephew  is 
engaged  to  be  married  to  a young  lady  of  his  own 
choice,  and  if  his  choice  had  fallen  upon  Cuckoo  I 
should  not  have  thought  of  opposing  it.  So  you 
see  that  your  imagination  must  have  played  a trick 
upon  you.” 

“ Mais  je  n’y  suis  plus  du  tout , du  tout!”  mur- 
mured the  perplexed  lady. 

“I  can  sympathise  with  you,”  answered  James; 
“ I have  not  unfrequently  found  myself  similarly 
situated.  But  in  such  cases  I think — don't  you 
agree  with  me? — that  the  wisest  plan  is  always  to 
keep  silence.” 

20 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


FITZEOY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING. 

“ At  las t,”  Lady  Wardlaw  announced  to  her  hus- 
band, one  sultry  afternoon  when  the  London  season 
was  at  its  height,  “ J ames  condescends  to  communi- 
cate with  me.  I have  a letter,  dated  from  some  place 
or  other  on  the  Italian  lakes,  in  which  he  doesn’t 
answer  a single  one  of  the  questions  with  which  I 
have  been  bombarding  him  all  this  time.” 

“ That,”  observed  Sir  William,  “ does  not  surprise 
me.  It  is  so  easy  to  abstain  from  answering  imper- 
tinent questions  when  you  are  safe  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Alps.” 

“ My  questions,”  Lady  Wardlaw  declared,  “ were 
anything  but  impertinent.” 

“ Perhaps  they  were  too  pertinent,  then.  Well, 
what  has  he  to  say  for  himself?  ” 

“ Oh,  nothing.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
what  could  he  say  for  himself?  He  tries  to  say 
something  for  the  girl — the  same  ridiculous,  fatuous 
excuses  about  her  health  having  broken  down  that 
he  sent  to  his  constituents  and  the  newspapers. 
Then,  of  course,  he  adds  that  I shall  understand  what 
a severe  nervous  shock  she  has  sustained  and  how 
he  could  do  no  less  than  take  her  away  from  scenes 
300 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  301 

and  associations  which  she  could  no  longer  endure. 
As  if  somebody  else  couldn’t  have  taken  her  away! 
I really  am  out  of  all  patience  with  James.” 

“ I have  noticed  for  some  time  past  that  you  are,” 
observed  Sir  William  placidly.  “ I don’t  blame  you 
— and  I am  not  sure  that  I blame  him  very  much 
either.  The  whole  business  is  too  comic  and  too 
pathetic.  A man  sets  up  as  a misogynist,  won’t 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  women,  young  or  old, 
than  he  can  help,  and  then  they  avenge  themselves 
by  playing  the  very  deuce  with  his  life  twice  over! 
Ce  que  c’est  que  de  nous ! ” 

“ Pathetic  it  may  be,”  Lady  Wardlaw  agreed; 
“ where  the  comedy  comes  in  I am  too  matter-of-fact 
or  not  cold-blooded  enough  to  see.  To  fling  away 
wrhat  James  has  flung  away  simply  and  solely  because 
a girl  who  owes  everything  to  him  has  taken  it  into 
her  head  that  she  would  like  to  get  out  of  the  country 
is — oh,  there  aren’t  any  words  to  describe  such  con- 
duct! One  can  only  assume  that  there  is  more  be- 
hind it  than  we  know  of;  I have  thought  so  from 
the  first.” 

She  had  been  thinking  so  and  saying  so  for  sev- 
eral weeks  past,  and,  as  may  be  imagined,  many  other 
people  had  been  doing  likewise.  A Cabinet  min- 
ister does  not,  after  all,  throw  up  his  position  and 
his  seat  in  Parliament  in  order  to  give  his  daughter, 
or  his  adopted  daughter,  the  trip  abroad  which  her 
state  of  health  is  alleged  to  require,  nor  could  any 
reasonable  being  doubt  that  Mr.  Pennant’s  sudden 
disappearance  was  due  to  causes  more  or  less  unavow- 
able.  Nevertheless,  Cuckoo’s  secret  had,  so  far,  been 


302 


THE  WIDOWER. 


well  kept.  The  fact  that  she  had  run  away  from 
home  had,  indeed,  transpired — filtering,  probably, 
through  the  usual  back-stairs  channels — but  Mrs. 
Carew  and  Fitzroy  Pennant  had  observed  a discreet 
silence,  while  the  latter’s  swift  journey  to  France 
and  back  remained  an  episode  unknown  to  anybody 
in  London,  save  himself. 

“ I am  determined  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it,” 
Lady  Wardlaw  resumed.  “ If  anything  can  be  done 
for  James — but  I am  very  much  afraid  that  nothing 
can  now — the  first  step  must  be  to  find  out  how 
matters  stand.”  She  added  presently,  “ The  Carews 
are  coming  to  dinner  this  evening.” 

Sir  William  raised  his  eyebrows.  “Why?”  he 
inquired  with  languid  curiosity. 

“ In  the  first  place,  because  I have  invited  them; 
in  the  second  place,  because  I am  convinced  that 
Julia  Carew  knows  something;  in  the  third  place, 
because  Fitzroy  Pennant  is  coming  too.” 

“ Again,  why?  if  one  may  make  so  bold  as  to 
ask.” 

“ Well,  he  shuffles  his  feet  about  and  gets  red  in 
the  face  when  his  uncle  and  the  girl  are  mentioned, 
and  I don’t  know  that  that  can  be  accounted  for  en- 
tirely by  the  brutal  way  in  which  the  Eochdales  keep 
rubbing  their  triumph  into  him.  Then  I noticed, 
the  other  day,  that  he  made  haste  to  decamp  as  soon 
as  the  Carews  appeared,  and  I caught  him  glaring 
like  a tiger  at  Harry’s  back  as  he  went  out.” 

“ Whereupon  you  ask  him  to  meet  them!  ” 

“ Oh,  only  for  my  own  satisfaction,  and  to  con- 
firm or  dispel  my  own  suspicions.  Whatever  I may 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  303 


be,  William,  you  will  allow  that  I am  not  a scandal- 
monger, and  any  discovery  that  I may  make  will  be 
kept  to  myself.  All  the  same,  one  does  wish  to  get 
at  the  truth.” 

Sir  William  shook  his  head.  “ I know  very  well 
what  you  wish,”  said  he.  “ You  wish  to  reinstate 
J ames — which  is  manifestly  impossible — and  you 
wish  to  pay  out  Lady  Rochdale — which  doesn’t  look 
altogether  easy  just  now.  I don’t  recommend  you  to 
imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger  and  Fitzroy  Pennant; 
I should  rather  advise  you,  if  my  advice  had  any 
chance  of  being  accepted,  to  imitate  the  action  of 
Brer  Rabbit  for  the  present.” 

“ If  my  advice  had  been  accepted  when  you  and 
James  consulted  me,  this  catastrophe  would  never 
have  occurred,”  returned  Lady  Wardlaw  loftily. 

Sir  William  thought  he  would  go  downstairs  and 
smoke  a cigarette  before  dressing  for  dinner.  The 
above  reproach  had  already  been  addressed  to  him 
more  than  once,  and  what  more  can  a man  say  than 
that  if  he  has  made  a mistake  he  is  sorry  for  it? 

Fitzroy  Pennant  had  made  rather  a mistake  in 
accepting  his  kinswoman’s  invitation  to  dinner, 
and  very  sorry  he  was  for  it  when  he  was  instructed 
*to  offer  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Carew.  He  had  for  some 
time  past  been  sedulously  avoiding  Mrs.  Carew,  who, 
as  he  was  aware,  had  been  not  less  sedulously  en- 
deavouring to  obtain  speech  from  him.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk  to  the  woman;  she  could  be  trusted,  he 
hoped,  to  hold  her  tongue,  and  he  had  no  information 
to  give  her  upon  a subject  which  was  best  ignored. 
But  now,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  was  in  for  a 


304 


THE  WIDOWER. 


good  hour  of  her  company,  and  his  somewhat  sullen 
discomfort  did  not  escape  the  vigilant  eye  of  his 
hostess. 

“ I have  been  wishing  so  much  to  have  a few 
words  with  you,”  his  neighbour  began,  as  soon  as 
the  hum  of  general  conversation  protected  her  from 
being  overheard.  “ I am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear  that  you  were  quite  right  in  your  surmise  about 
my  husband,  and  that  I was  quite  wrong.  He  never 
had  the  slightest  idea  of  eloping  with  that  unfor- 
tunate girl;  he  was  utterly  taken  aback  and  horrified 
when  I told  him  of  that  telegram  which  you  de- 
stroyed.” 

“ Then  you  told  him!  ” exclaimed  Fitzroy  indig- 
nantly. “ I thought  it  was  agreed  between  us  that 
you  were  not  to  tell  him.” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  remember  making  any  promise. 
Besides,  I didn’t  exactly  tell  him;  it  came  out  in  the 
course  of — well,  it  came  out  somehow,  and  I am  only 
too  thankful  that  it  did,  for  I see  now  that  I have 
been  rather  unjust  to  poor  Harry  at  times.  He  ac- 
knowledges that  he  was  a good  deal  to  blame,  but 
he  never  expected  to  be  taken  so  literally  as  he  seems 
to  have  been  taken,  and  he  says  this  will  be  a lesson 
to  him.  He  is  going  to  turn  over  a new  leaf, 
and ” 

“ In  other  words,”  interrupted  Fitzroy,  with  scant 
ceremony,  “ he  represents  himself  as  the  innocent 
victim  of  my  unscrupulous  cousin.  Well,  that  is  a 
chivalrous  line  of  defence  to  take  up!  It  sounds  so 
like  the  truth,  too,  doesn’t  it?  ” 

Mrs.  Carew  plaintively  expressed  the  surprise  and 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  305 


pain  which  it  gave  her  to  hear  such  things  said.  Of 
course  Harry  had  not  affected  to  be  a victim,  nor 
had  he  accused  anybody  save  himself. 

“ Added  to  which  we  don’t  know — at  least,  I 
don’t,  and  you  said  you  didn’t — that  your  cousin,  as 
you  still  call  her,  really  meant  what  her  telegram 
appeared  to  mean.  Your  idea  at  the  time,  if  you 
remember,  was  that  she  merely  wanted  to  have 
Harry’s  friendly  advice.  Absurd  as  that  sounds,  it 
isn’t  absolutely  incredible,  I suppose.” 

“ H’m!”  grunted  Fitzroy;  “ it  will  certainly  be 
pronounced  incredible,  though,  by  everybody  to 
whom  you  may  betray — whom  you  may  see  fit  to 
take  into  your  confidence.” 

But  Mrs.  Carew  was  not  dreaming  of  taking  any- 
body into  her  confidence — except,  indeed,  Fitzroy 
himself,  by  whom  she  had  expected  to  be  met  in  a 
spirit  just  a little  bit  more  sympathetic.  She  had,  in 
short,  arrived,  by  some  means  or  other,  at  a recon- 
ciliation with  her  husband,  and  this  was  evidently  a 
matter  of  far  greater  consequence  to  her  than 
Cuckoo’s  fate  or  reputation  could  ever  be. 

“ He  actually  came  to  church  with  me  last  Sun- 
day morning,”  she  gleefully  informed  her  exasper- 
ated neighbour,  who  could  not  help  growling  out 
under  his  breath,  “ More  shame  for  him!  ” 

That  Harry  Carew  deserved  to  have  his  head 
punched  seemed  to  be  beyond  doubt,  yet  one  can  not 
punch  a man’s  head  without  assigning  reasons  for 
so  doing,  so  that  the  fellow  was  safe  against  assault. 
Perhaps  he  would  hold  his  peace,  and  perhaps  he 
wouldn’t;  there  was  no  reliance  to  be  placed  either 


306 


THE  WIDOWER. 


upon  him  or  upon  his  silly  and  easily  pacified  spouse, 
though  the  latter  willingly  gave  all  the  pledges  de- 
manded of  her.  A less  partial  critic  than  Fitzroy 
Pennant  may  be  permitted  to  point  out  that  Harry 
Carew,  however  ignoble  may  appear  the  part  which 
he  played  in  this  unfortunate  affair,  could  have  bene- 
fited nobody  by  acting  otherwise  than  as  he  did. 
It  may  be  assumed  that  he  was  as  much  and  as  little 
in  love  with  Cuckoo  as  he  had  been  with  innumer- 
able other  charmers;  it  is  certain  that  he  would  never 
have  cut  his  throat  or  hanged  himself  by  the  neck  to 
please  any  of  them;  and  it  is  probable  that  he  contin- 
ues to  recognise,  as  he  has  ever  recognised,  the  folly 
of  quarrelling  with  his  bread  and  butter.  Possibly 
Julia,  who  represents  bread  and  butter,  is  also  the 
vicar  of  inexorable  Nemesis;  be  that  as  it  may,  Mr. 
Carew  passes  nowadays  for  a reformed  character. 

The  unphilosophic  Fitzroy,  however,  being  still 
young  enough  to  rage  against  people  and  things  for 
being  what  they  inevitably  are,  went  upstairs  after 
dinner  in  a shocking  bad  temper.  He  had  been 
bored  and  irritated  by  that  senseless  woman,  he  had 
subsequently  been  goaded  up  to  the  very  verge  of  a 
hostile  demonstration  by  her  smiling,  complacent 
husband,  and  when  Lady  Wardlaw  bore  down  upon 
him,  with  the  palpable  intention  of  eliciting  infor- 
mation, she  met  with  the  sort  of  reception  usually 
accorded  to  an  inquiring  terrier  by  a badger  whose 
seclusion  has  been  invaded. 

“ I know  nothing  at  all  about  it,”  snapped  out 
Fitzroy  in  reply  to  initial  queries;  “ I haven’t  heard 
from  Uncle  James  since  he  left  London,  and  I don’t 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  307 


expect  to  hear.  If  you  are  so  eager  to  find  out  all 
about  his  private  affairs,  why  don’t  you  write  to  him? 
I thought  you  prided  yourself  upon  being  his  bosom 
friend.” 

“ Are  you  aware/’  asked  the  surprised  Lady 
Wardlaw,  “ that  you  are  an  extremely  bad-mannered 
youth?  ” 

“ I wasn’t  aware  of  it;  I try  to  behave  as  decently 
as  I can.  But  since  you  say  my  manners  are  bad,  I 
suppose  they  are,  and  I won’t  inflict  them  upon  you 
any  longer.  I should  have  to  say  good  night  now, 
anyhow,  for  I have  got  to  go  to  a beastly  ball.” 

Lady  Wardlaw  gazed  after  his  retreating  figure 
with  a smile  of  appeased  amusement. 

“ So  his  fiancee  has  ordered  him  to  join  her  at  a 
ball,  and  he  calls  the  entertainment  a beastly  one!  ” 
said  she  to  herself.  “ Poor  boy!  You  haven’t  told 
me  much,  but  you  have  told  me  rather  more  than 
you  meant.  Now,  I wonder  whether  Harry  Carew 
or  his  wife  would  be  the  right  persons  to  apply  to 
for  the  missing  pieces  of  the  puzzle.” 

Leaving  Lady  Wardlaw  to  decide  that  question 
by  the  aid  of  such  wits  as  Heaven  had  bestowed  upon 
her,  Fitzroy  betook  himself  to  the  mansion  in  Park 
Lane  where,  as  had  been  correctly  divined,  he  had 
an  appointment  to  keep  with,  the  charming  young 
lady  who  was  ere  long  to  become  his  bride.  She  was, 
by  universal  consent,  a charming  young  lady,  and  he 
was — Lord  and  Lady  Rochdale  never  allowed  him  to 
forget  that — a very  lucky  fellow;  but  the  mischief 
of  it  was  that  she  had  no  charms  at  all  for  him.  He 
had  been  forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  she  had 


308 


THE  WIDOWER. 


none,  and  such  admissions  concerning  a person  with 
whom  the  remainder  of  one’s  life  must  be  spent  are 
necessarily  dispiriting.  He  had  found  out,  as  en- 
gaged men  sometimes  do  a little  too  late  in  the  day, 
that  his  future  wife  had  a temper;  that  she  was  vain; 
peevish,  exacting,  wrapped  up  in  herself.  To  be 
sure,  if  he  had  been  in  love  with  her  these  trifling 
blemishes  would  have  been  invisible,  or  would,  at 
any  rate,  have  been  described  in  quite  different  terms; 
but,  unfortunately,  he  was  not  in  love  with  her,  and 
knew  now  that  he  never  had  been.  That  day  in 
Paris — that  delightful,  disastrous  day — had  opened 
his  eyes  while  closing  his  lips;  illusions  had  ceased 
then  and  there  to  be  manageable. 

But  what  should  always  be  found  manageable  by 
a man  of  honour,  notwithstanding  the  impediments 
that  belong  to  congenial  honesty,  is  to  stick  to  his 
plighted  word,  and  Fitzroy  clearly  realized  that  no 
honourable  way  of  escape  lay  open  to  him.  He  was 
prepared  to  discharge  to  the  best  of  his  ability  all 
the  duties  imposed  upon  him,  one  of  which  led  him, 
a good  deal  against  his  grain,  to  his  present  destina- 
tion, a spacious,  freshly  decorated  house,  owned  by 
people  who  had  themselves  been  freshly  decorated 
with  a coronet,  in  recognition  of  their  vast  pecuniary 
merits.  These  were  so  generally  and  generously  ac- 
knowledged by  the  gay  world  that  to  discover  Lady 
Elizabeth  Tufnell  in  so  densely  packed  a crowd  was 
a task  of  some  little  difficulty.  However,  her  be- 
trothed found  her  at  last,  engaged  in  animated  con- 
versation with  the  eldest  son  of  the  house — found  her 
also,  to  judge  by  the  cloud  which  gathered  upon  her 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  309 


brow  when  she  was  accosted,  in  no  very  amiable 
mood. 

“ Stay  where  you  are,  please;  don’t  move/’  said 
she  in  the  somewhat  sharp  and  acid  accents  which 
Fitzroy  had  learned  of  late  that  her  voice  could  as- 
sume. “ Mr.  Schwale  will  bring  me  back  here  at  the 
end  of  this  dance.” 

So  Fitzroy  stayed  where  he  was  and  watched  her 
being  dragged  and  bumped  round  the  room  under 
the  unskilful  guidance  of  the  swarthy  Semitic  Teu- 
ton who  would  be  Lord  Bermondsey  as  soon  as  the 
actual  holder  of  that  title  should  see  fit  to  seek  re- 
pose in  Abraham’s  bosom.  He  was  not  jealous  of  the 
Honourable  Samuel  Schwale,  he  was  not  jealous  of 
anybody,  nor  did  he  in  the  least  mind  being  kept 
waiting  a long  time.  For  the  matter  of  that,  he 
would  not  have  minded  very  much  if  Lady  Elizabeth 
had  forgotten  all  about  him  and  had  departed  for 
home  or  some  other  festivity,  leaving  him  at  his  post, 
a neglected,  conscientious  sentinel. 

But  there  was  no  fear  or  hope  of  her  doing  that. 
She  had  reasons  for  bearing  his  vicinity  in  mind,  the 
nature  of  which  was  rendered  startlingly  and  un- 
pleasantly apparent  to  him  when,  after  requesting 
him  to  conduct  her  to  a sitting-out  place,  designed 
to  accommodate  two  persons  only,  she  opened  fire 
point-blank  with:  “ You  know  the  Hanbury-Leigh- 
tons,  I believe.  Perhaps  you  won’t  mind  telling  me 
when  and  where  you  saw  them  last.” 

Fitzroy  made  a grimace.  “ I suppose  that 
means  that  you  have  already  been  told,”  he  remarked; 
“ I was  in  hopes  that,  as  they  had  said  nothing  up  to 


310 


THE  WIDOWER. 


now,  they  were  going  to  be  good-natured  and  mind 
their  own  business.” 

“ They  have  been  at  Contrexeville;  they  only  re- 
turned two  days  ago,  and  they  called  yesterday  after- 
noon.” 

“ Really?  Then  they  can’t  be  accused  of  having 
lost  any  time  in  letting  you  know  that  they  came 
across  Cuckoo  and  me  in  a Paris  restaurant.  What 
of  it?” 

“ You  don’t  deny  that  they  saw  you  there,  and 
that  you  and  that — that  girl  were  dining  together 
alone!  ” 

“ Of  course  I don’t  deny  it;  I am  not  in  the  habit 
of  telling  lies.” 

“ You  are  in  the  habit  of  deceiving  those 
who  trust  you  though,  it  seems.  How  came  you 
to  be  in  Paris?  and  why  did  I know  nothing  about 
it?” 

“ One  isn’t  free  to  talk  about  family  affairs,”  an- 
swered Fitzroy;  “ but,  since  these  people  have  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag,  you  are  very  welcome  to  hear  the 
truth.  Cuckoo,  as  you  know,  and  as  everybody  else 
knows,  foolishly  ran  away  from  home ■” 

“ With  you!  ” 

“ What  nonsense!  If  she  had  run  away  with  me, 
should  I be  here  at  this  moment?  I bolted  off  after 
her  because — well,  because  I happened  by  chance  to 
find  out  where  she  was,  and  my  uncle,  to  whom  I at 
once  telegraphed,  followed  closely  upon  my  heels. 
He  reached  Paris  and  I left  the  very  evening  that 
the  Hanbury-Leightons  saw  us.  As  for  my  dining 
with  Cuckoo,  one  must  dine  somewhere,  and  surely 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  3H 


two  first  cousins,  one  of  whom  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried, may  dispense  with  a chaperon! ” 

“ You  are  not  that  girl’s  first  cousin;  you  are  no 
relation  of  hers.” 

“ We  were  brought  up  as  first  cousins,  any- 
how, and  I thought  myself  entitled  to  some  of 
the  privileges  of  cousinship.  Now  I have  told 
you  all  that  there  is  to  tell,  and  I hope  you  are  sat- 
isfied.” 

“ I might  be,”  answered  Lady  Elizabeth,  “ if  I 
believed  one  word  of  your  story.  But  I don’t.” 

“ Thank  you.  Then  what,  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness, do  you  believe?  ” 

“ I believe,”  replied  his  fiancee  with  great  delib- 
eration, “that  you  ran  away  with  your  old  flame — 
oh,  she  was  an  old  flame  of  yours;  you  have  admitted 
that.  I believe  that  Mr.  Pennant  followed  you  to 
Paris  and  sent  you  back  here,  hoping  that  nobody 
would  find  out  what  you  had  done,  and  I know  that 
he  has  carried  his  precious  adopted  daughter  off  to 
Switzerland  or  some  such  place,  where  they  will  re- 
main, no  doubt,  until  they  think  that  there  is  no 
further  risk  of  scandal.” 

“ You  can  not  really  believe  anything  so  prepos- 
terous. Admitting  that  I am  a scoundrel,  and  that 
Uncle  James  is  another,  and  that  Cuckoo  is  no  better 
than  she  should  be,  don’t  you  see  that  such  a course 
as  you  describe  would  be  the  very  last  we  should  be 
likely  to  adopt?  ” 

“No,  I don’t,”  replied  Lady  Elizabeth  doggedly 
and  sullenly;  “ I don’t  see  it  at  all.  I think  noth- 
ing is  more  likely  than  that  he  should  wish  his  heir 


312 


THE  WIDOWER. 


to  make  a good  marriage,  and  that  you — upon  second 
thoughts — should  agree  with  him.” 

Fitzroy  relieved  his  feelings  by  a gesture  of  dis- 
dain and  disgust,  but  vouchsafed  no  articulated  re- 
joinder. 

“ You  told  me  once,”  Lady  Elizabeth  resumed, 
“ that  you  were  not  in  love  with  the  girl  whom  you 
choose  to  call  your  cousin.  Can  you  tell  me  that 
again — upon  your  honour?  ” 

Once  more  Fitzroy  was  fain  to  remain  silent,  but 
this  time  he  looked  and  felt  a good  deal  less  digni- 
fied than  before.  He  divined  that  Lady  Elizabeth 
wanted  an  excuse  to  throw  him  over,  yet  it  was  out 
of  his  power  to  assert  now  that  he  loved  her  or  that 
he  did  not  love  Cuckoo. 

“ You  are  convincingly  eloquent,”  he  was  pres- 
ently told,  in  accents  of  withering  scorn;  “ I don’t 
know  that  there  is  anything  more  to  be  said,  except 
good-bye.” 

“ You  mean  that  our  engagement  is  at  an  end?  ” 

"Well,  naturally!  It  is  disagreeable  and  humil- 
iating for  me,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  ten  times 
more  disagreeable,  and  ten  times  more  humiliating, 
to  be  your  wife.” 

She  rose  and  moved  away,  but  Fitzroy  hastily  in- 
tercepted her. 

“ One  moment,”  he  pleaded.  “ I won’t  ask  you 
to  reconsider  your  decision;  we  haven’t  got  on  par- 
ticularly well  together — perhaps  we  aren’t  exactly 
suited  to  one  another — and  it  is  best  that  we  should 
part.  But  don’t  let  our  rupture  be  accounted  for  on 
false  grounds.  There  can  not  be  any  necessity  for 


FITZROY  SPENDS  A MOMENTOUS  EVENING.  313 

dragging  in  Cuckoo’s  name  or  my  uncle’s,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  incompatibilty  of  temper ” 

“ Oh,  by  all  means,  if  you  prefer  to  call  it  by 
that  name.  What  I shall  say  is  only  that  I have 
found  you  are  not  what  I took  you  to  be.  You 
will  have  to  square  the  Hanbury-Leightons  some- 
how or  other;  but  that  is  your  affair,  it  doesn’t  con- 
cern me.” 

Well,  yes,  he  would  have  to  square  the  Hanbury- 
Leightons — or  else  ignore  them  and  their  indiscreet 
revelations.  Upon  the  whole,  it  would  perhaps  be 
best  to  ignore  them,  since  there  might  be  some  diffi- 
culty in  accounting  for  his  precipitate  rush  across 
the  Channel  without  divulging  what  must  certainly 
never  be  divulged  with  regard  to  Mr.  Harry  Carew. 
If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  he  could  at  any  time 
prove  that  Cuckoo  had  left  London  alone,  and  that 
he  had  telegraphed  to  his  uncle  immediately  on  dis- 
covering her  whereabouts.  Meanwhile  he  was  a free 
man — voluntarily  set  at  liberty  by  one  to  whom  his 
word  had  been  given,  and  to  whom  he  had  done  no 
WTong.  If  he  rubbed  his  hands  as  he  quitted  the 
halls  of  the  resplendent  Schwales,  who  can  blame 
him?  Of  no  mortal  is  it  required  to  do  more  than 
his  duty,  and  only  a very  select  few  are  entitled  to 
boast  of  having  done  as  much.  Nevertheless,  it  may 
have  been  somewhat  premature  on  his  part  to  as- 
sume, as  he  did,  that  all  the  rest  was  going  to  be 
plain  sailing. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 


ATT  BORD  DU  LAC. 

Those  who  choose  to  live  in  a fool’s  paradise 
have  always  been  regarded  with  pitying  contempt 
by  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  indeed  there  is  not 
much  to  be  said  in  their  defence — unless,  perchance, 
that  it  is  worth  while  to  live  in  a paradise  of  any 
kind,  upon  no  matter  what  terms,  if  one  can.  Earth- 
ly existence,  taken  as  a whole,  is  not  so  paradisaical 
an  affair  that  mortals  can  afford  to  neglect  such 
opportunities  as  may  come  within  their  reach  of 
making  believe  that  it  is.  So  James  Pennant  and 
Cuckoo,  upon  the  shores  of  their  blue  Italian  lake, 
were  right  enough,  it  may  be,  to  keep  on  proclaim- 
ing how  happy  they  were,  although  one  of  them 
knew  that  the  other  could  not  really  be  so,  although 
the  pillow  of  the  latter  was  frequently  moistened  at 
night  by  her  tears,  and  although  both  must  have 
been  aware  in  their  hearts  that  they  had  embarked 
upon  an  impracticable  enterprise.  A man  in  James 
Pennant’s  position  can  not  reside  permanently  out 
of  his  own  country,  while  a girl  situated  as  Cuckoo 
was — well,  her  situation  was  not  as  yet  very  accurate- 
ly defined,  but  she  perceived,  when  she  lay  awake  at 
night,  that  it  would  soon  become  necessary  for  her  to 
define  it. 


314 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


315 


Meanwhile  the  fugitive  joys  that  belong  to  a 
truce  were  theirs.  By  mutual  tacit  consent,  they 
tabooed  contentious  subjects;  they  pretended — some- 
times so  successfully  that  there  was  very  little  pre- 
tence about  it — to  ask  for  nothing  better  than  a 
continuance  of  their  present  quiet  mode  of  life;  ,« 
every  day  they  were  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to- 
gether, and  if  they  had  still  a few  secrets  from  one 
another,  these  might  very  well  have  been  divulged 
without  entailing  any  loss  of  esteem  on  either  side. 
But  in  these  days  of  admirably  organized  postal  serv- 
ice the  Lago  Maggiore  is  not,  after  all,  much  far- 
ther away  from  London  than  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, and  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  on  one  and  the 
same  day  these  would-be  recluses  received  an  agi- 
tating letter  apiece. 

Lady  Wardlaw  wrote  to  her  dear  James  to  say 
that  really  this  was  getting  beyond  a joke.  “ If  you 
have  fled  the  country  merely  because  Cuckoo  was  a 
little  upset  at  discovering  that  she  was  not  what  she 
thought  she  was,  she  has  surely  had  time  to  recover 
herself  now,  and  perhaps  to  feel  a little  ashamed  of 
having  done  her  best  to  wreck  your  career.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  has  been  something  in  the 
nature  of  a scandal,  about  which  you  have  not  seen 
fit  to  enlighten  me,  then  the  sooner  you  come  home 
and  face  it  the  better.  Because  everybody  here,  I 
may  tell  you,  believes  that  there  has  been  a scandal. 
Harry  Carew’s  name  is  freely  mentioned  in  connec- 
tion with  it;  his  goose  of  a wife  has  been  hinting 
things  to  me  and  others  which  I don’t  care  to  re- 
peat to  you.  And  now,  these  last  few  days,  a report 
21 


316 


THE  WIDOWER. 


had  got  about  that  Fitzroy  is  the  culprit!  Some 
people,  it  appears,  actually  saw  him  dining  with  the 
girl  at  a Paris  restaurant,  and,  according  to  Lady 
Rochdale,  he  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  they 
did.  You  know,  I suppose,  that  his  engagement  is 
off.  What  does  it  all  mean?  A girl  may  be  what 
you  please — or  what  you  don’t  please — but  one  can 
hardly  imagine  her  eloping,  or  trying  to  elope,  with 
two  men  simultaneously.  I presume  you  can  ex- 
plain, and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to  explain 
without  loss  of  time.  That  is,  if  you  think  your 
adopted  daughter’s  reputation  worth  the  trouble  of 
a journey  to  London.  I am  doing  what  I can,  but 
it  is  not  much  that  I can  do  while  I am  kept  so 
completely  in  the  dark.” 

Lady  Wardlaw’s  homily,  of  which  the  above  is 
but  a brief  excerpt,  afforded  J ames  matter  for  anxious 
meditation.  Of  course  he  could  explain — could,  at 
all  events,  give  a partial  explanation — but  the  ques- 
tion was  whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  let  distant 
tongues  wag  than  to  undertake  the  task  of  putting 
this  or  that  liar  to  confusion.  Liars  might  doubtless 
be  forced  to  eat  their  words;  but,  unfortunately, 
there  were  two  persons — Harry  Carew  and  his  wife, 
to  wit — who  had  it  in  their  power  to  reveal  a most 
deplorable  truth.  All  things  considered,  James  felt 
disposed  to  await  events.  The  breaking  off  of  Fitz- 
roy’s  engagement,  of  which  this  was  the  first  intima- 
tion that  had  reached  him,  struck  him  as  being  one 
event  which  might  possibly  bring  others  in  its  train. 
He,  therefore,  allowed  the  post  to  go  out  without 
taking  any  reply  from  him  to  his  correspondent,  and 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


317 


he  had  come  to  no  decision  when,  toward  evening, 
he  took  Cuckoo  out,  as  usual,  for  a row  on  the 
lake. 

It  was  their  habit  to  go  out  every  evening  in  the 
light  skiff  which  he  had  hired,  and  the  evening  hours 
were  always  their  happiest  hours;  but  now,  for  the 
first  time,  Cuckoo  was  unable  to  affect  the  gaiety 
which  she  had  hitherto  contrived  to  summon  up, 
with  more  or  less  of  an  effort.  She  was  absent- 
minded;  her  eyelids  were  red  and  slightly  swollen; 
once  or  twice  she  seemed  to  be  upon  the  point  of 
speaking,  but  relapsed  into  silence  under  her  com- 
panion’s interrogative  gaze.  At  length  James  shipped 
his  sculls,  bent  forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  said: 

“ Something  is  the  matter.  What  is  it?  ” 

The  fact  of  his  putting  such  a question  proved 
the  completeness  of  their  reconciliation.  A month 
or  two  earlier  he  would  have  noticed  the  signs  of 
distress  above  mentioned,  but  would  certainly  not 
have  remarked  upon  them.  Nor,  if  he  had,  would 
she  have  answered,  with  a smile,  as  she  did: 

“ Something  is  the  matter  with  you,  too,  and  I 
can  guess  what  it  is.  You  had  a letter  from  Lady 
Wardlaw  to-day,  for  I recognised  the  handwriting. 
Would  you  mind  letting  me  see  what  she  says?” 

“ I will  show  you  her  letter,  if  you  like,”  replied 
James  hesitatingly;  “but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
would  rather  not.” 

“ Well,  I also  have  had  a letter,  from  Fitzroy, 
which  I will  show  you,  if  you  like;  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I would  rather  not.  All  the  same,  I know 


318 


THE  WIDOWER. 


that  something  must  be  said  about  these  two  letters. 
Both  of  them,  I dare  say,  brought  the  same  news.” 

“ J ane’s  news  is  that  Fitzroy’s  engagement  has 
been  broken  off.” 

“ Exactly  so — and,  besides?” 

“ Nothing  besides  that  can  be  called  news.  She 
implores  me,  of  course,  to  return  home,  and  she  al- 
ludes to  rumours  and  gossip  for  which  I take  it  that 
we  were  prepared,  you  and  I.  We  could  hardly  ex- 
pect to  escape  that  sort  of  thing.” 

“ So  Fitzroy  says.  But  ought  not  some  of  the 
rumours  to  be  contradicted?  Not  for  my  sake — no- 
body can  say  anything  worse  of  me  than  I deserve — 
but  for  his.” 

“ Oh,  certainly,  if  he  wishes  it.  Does  he  wish 
it?” 

Cuckoo  made  no  reply.  After  a pause,  however, 
she  resumed:  “ Father”  (she  had  begun,  at  his  en- 
treaty, to  address  him  by  that  name  once  more),  “ I 
want  you  to  advise  me.  I don’t  know  what  I ought 
to  do,  though  I believe  I know  what  I ought  not  to 
do,  and  I am  sure  I know  what  I ought  never  to 
have  done.  It  was  unpardonable  of  me  to  allow 
you  to  give  up  your  office  and  your  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment.” 

“ My  dear  child,  you  could  not  have  allowed  or 
forbidden  a step  which  I made  so  bold  as  to  take 
without  consulting  you.” 

“ At  all  events,  I am  responsible  for  your  having 
taken  it,  and  I feel — I have  been  feeling  all  this  time 
— that  it  must  be  retraced!  There  is  no  doubt  that 
you  will  have  to  go  back  to  England,  and  I think  you 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


319 


should  go  soon.  The  only  question  is,  Am  I to  go 
with  you  or  not?  ” 

“ Where  I go  you  will  go,  and  where  you  stay  I 
shall  stay,”  answered  J ames.  “ I trust  you  don’t 
find  that  prospect  a very  distasteful  one,  for  I warn 
you  that  there  is  no  evading  it.” 

She  laughed  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  “ Ah,  it 
isn’t  that  prospect  that  would  be  distasteful,  if  I 
had  any  right  to  accept  it!  But — 0 father,  the 
truth  is  that  I am  a coward!  I dread  going  back  to 
England  and  facing  all  those  people  who  know,  or 
guess,  what  I have  done.  And  then ” 

“ Then  we  won’t  go  back  to  England;  nothing  is 
simpler.” 

Cuckoo  endeavoured  to  show  hinj  that  the  dilem- 
ma, on  the  contrary,  was  a somewhat  complicated 
one.  It  admitted,  nevertheless,  of  a solution  which 
he  might,  upon  reflection,  pronounce  as  satisfactory 
as  any  that  could  be  discovered,  although  it  would 
not  perhaps  commend  itself  favourably  to  him  at 
once.  Her  idea,  in  short,  was  that  the  French  stage 
would  provide  her  with  an  interest  and  an  occupa- 
tion in  life,  while  relieving  him  of  what  must  al- 
ways he  a clog  and  an  embarrassment. 

“ I should  like  it,  and  I believe  I should  suc- 
ceed,” she  declared  in  conclusion.  “ We  should 
meet  as  often  as  you  could  find  time  to  run  abroad 
and  see  me.  I should  not  cease  to  be  beholden  to 
you,  although  I should  no  longer  feel  that  I was  a 
burden  upon  you,  and  I should  never,  never  cease  to 
think  of  you  as  my  father.” 

“ So  that  is  the  plan  as  to  which  you  do  me  the 


320 


THE  WIDOWER. 


honour  to  request  my  advice,”  said  James.  “You 
have  no  alternative  plan  to  suggest,  I suppose?” 

She  shook  her  head.  “ Fitzroy’s  alternative  isn’t 
to  be  thought  of.  I didn’t  tell  you  that  the  object  of 
his  letter  was  to  ask  me  to  marry  him.  As  if  I 
could  possibly  do  such  a thing!  ” 

“ My  dear,”  exclaimed  James,  whose  breath  was 
a little  taken  back  by  the  welcome  piece  of  intelli- 
gence thus  calmly  announced,  “ it  is  the  very  thing 
that  you  ought  to  do  and  must  do,  if  you  care  for 
him!  ” 

“How  can  you  think  so!  If,  after  what  I have 
done — and  what  I have  done  can’t  any  longer  be 
concealed,  remember,  unless  Fitzroy  is  to  sit  down 
under  a false  accusation — I should  disgrace  you  by 
acting  as  mistress  of  the  house  at  Abbotswell,  much 
greater  would  be  the  disgrace  that  I should  bring 
upon  him  by  becoming  his  wife.  I didn’t  say  that 
in  writing  to  him,  because  it  would  have  sounded 
as  if  I only  wished  to  be  contradicted;  but ■” 

“ You  have  answered  him  already,  then?  ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  he  was  in  a hurry  for  an  answer.  I 
think,  do  you  know,  that  perhaps  he  will  end  by 
marrying  Lady  Elizabeth,  after  all.  At  any  rate,  it 
is  only  fair  to  them  both  that  her  reason  for  throw- 
ing him  over  should  be  shown  to  be  no  reason  at 
all.” 

“ Cuckoo,  do  you  care  for  Fitzroy,  or  do  you 
not?” 

“Would  you  like  to  know  what  I said  to  him? 
I said  that  I cared  very  much  indeed  for  him,  and 
always  had,  but  that  there  was  only  one  man  in  the 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


321 


world  with  whom  I wanted  to  spend  the  rest  of  my 
days,  and  that,  although  that  man’s  name  was  Pen- 
nant, his  Christian  name  was  not  Fitzroy.” 

“ Yet  you  propose  to  leave  me  and  become  an  ac- 
tress! ” 

“Ah,  that  is  because  I have  no  choice,  not  be- 
cause I wouldn’t  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  with  you, 
if  I could.  0 father,  don’t  you  believe — don’t  you 
know,  that  I could  never  love  anybody  half  as  much 
as  I love  you?  ” 

Such  assurances  on  the  part  of  grateful  and 
warm-hearted  children  are  not  without  precedent, 
but  no  parent  in  his  sober  senses  ever  dreams  of  tak- 
ing them  seriously.  In  the  course  of  nature,  the 
rival  of  all  parents  must  one  day  step  upon  the  scene, 
and  his  advent  is  a thing  to  be  hoped  for  rather 
than  dreaded.  Still,  Cuckoo’s  words  were  pleasant 
hearing  to  the  childless  man  whose  child  she  virtu- 
ally was. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “ you  are  not  going  to  leave  me 
and  you  are  not  going  to  be  an  actress;  let  that  suf- 
fice for  the  present.  Eventually,  though  not  for 
some  time  to  come,  we  shall,  I suppose,  have  to  re- 
turn to  Abbotswell,  which  certainly  will  not  be  dis- 
graced by  our  presence,  but  we  need  not  bother  our 
heads  about  the  future  yet.  As  regards  Fitzroy,  I 
will  let  him  know  that,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned, 
he  is  fully  at  liberty  to  exculpate  himself.  More 
than  that  we  can’t  very  well  say  or  do,  for  Mrs.  Ca- 
rew’s  wishes  in  the  matter  must  be  taken  into  ac- 
count, you  see.” 

Not  without  a good  deal  of  further  discussion  was 


322 


THE  WIDOWER. 


Cuckoo  prevailed  upon  to  yield,  but  at  length  she 
gave  in,  having,  indeed,  no  valid  reply  to  James’s 
final  argument,  “You  say  that  you  love  me  best. 
Prove  it,  then,  by  giving  me  what  I ask  for.” 

There  is  a kind  of  love  which  surpasses  the  more 
or  less  transient  emotion  commonly  known  by  that 
name,  inasmuch  as  nothing  can  shake  it,  while  it  is, 
by  its  very  nature,  exempt  from  all  taint  of  selfish- 
ness. But  only  when  what  are  called  the  best  years 
of  life  are  past  can  man  or  woman  make  acquaint- 
ance with  this.  To  young  people  it  must  needs  re- 
main a mystery.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  they  dimly 
realize  its  existence,  and  when  this  happens — it  does 
not  very  often  happen — the  hearts  of  the  elderly 
are  prone  to  overflow  with  joy  and  thankfulness.  So 
it  fell  to  James  Pennant’s  lot  to  spend  a couple  of 
supremely  happy  days,  notwithstanding  his  regret 
that  Cuckoo  had  been  unable  to  prefer  her  faithful 
Fitzroy  to  him. 

Upon  the  third  day,  however,  the  absurdity  of 
being  supremely  happy  at  so  belated  a period  of  ex- 
istence as  his  was  rendered  manifest  to  him.  One 
evening,  when  Cuckoo  and  he  stepped  ashore  after 
their  accustomed  row  upon  the  lake,  during  which 
they  had  been  amusing  themselves  with  building  all 
manner  of  airy  castles,  and  planning  half  a dozen 
journeys  into  remote  regions,  they  were  accosted  by 
a stalwart  young  Englishman  who  had  just  arrived 
from  beyond  the  Alps,  and  it  was  easy  to  foresee — 
Cuckoo’s  eyes  and  cheeks  supplied  the  requisite  infor- 
mation— what  was  at  hand. 

“My  dear  fellow!”  James  exclaimed,  clapping 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


323 


his  nephew  affectionately  upon  the  shoulder,  “ this  is 
more  than  good  of  you!  You  didn't  wait  to  hear 
from  us,  then?  " 

“ I couldn't!"  Fitzroy  somewhat  shamefacedly 
avowed.  “ I was  afraid  you  might  be  off  somewhere, 
leaving  no  address,  and — and  I have  such  a lot  of 
things  to  say! " 

“You  ought  to  have  waited!"  cried  Cuckoo  in 
reproachful  accents;  “you  have  given  yourself  a 
tiring  and  expensive  journey  all  for  nothing." 

But  James  paid  no  heed  to  her.  “ I have  made 
myself  so  hot  sculling,"  said  he,  “ that  I must  really 
go  in  and  change.  You  can  follow  me  presently,  you 
two;  don't  hurry  yourselves." 

Full  well  he  knew  that  they  would  not  hurry, 
and  that  plenty  of  time  would  be  given  him  to 
change  his  clothes,  smoke  a solitary  cigar,  and  watch 
the  fireflies  from  the  balcony  while  the  stars  came 
out,  one  by  one,  overhead.  It  was  best  so,  and  he 
would  not  for  the  world  have  had  it  otherwise,  and 
that  rapid  side  glance  at  Cuckoo's  face  which  had 
revealed  everything  to  him  had  given  him  at  least 
as  much  pleasure  as  pain.  Nevertheless,  one  does 
not  without  a passing  pang  relinquish  the  very  last 
of  one's  day  dreams. 

Fitzroy  and  Cuckoo,  left  by  themselves  upon  the 
little  jetty,  did  not  keep  one  another  long  in  suspense. 

“ I'll  tell  you  why  I didn't  wait  for  your  answer," 
he  began;  “ I was  sure,  when  I came  to  think  of  it, 
that  it  would  be  a refusal." 

Cuckoo  made  a sign  of  assent.  “ What  else  could 
you  expect?  " 


324: 


THE  WIDOWER. 


“ That’s  just  what  I mean.  You  couldn’t  be  ex- 
pected to  tell  me  the  real  truth.” 

“ Thank  you;  that  is  candid  of  you,  if  it  isn’t 
very  flattering.” 

“ Well,  what  did  you  say  in  your  reply?  ” 

“ I can’t  remember  exactly,  but  the  gist  of  it  was 
that  nobody — not  even  you,  much  as  I like  you  and 
grateful  as  I shall  always  be  to  you — would  ever 
persuade  me  to  leave  my  dear  father,  who  has  been 
much  more  than  a father  to  me.” 

“Ah,  there  you  are!  I knew  you  wouldn’t  give 
your  genuine  reasons.  Now  shall  I tell  you  your 
genuine  reasons?  In  the  first  place,  you  had  an  idea 
that  because  my  engagement  had  been  broken  off  on 
account  of  you,  it  might  come  on  again,  and  I was 
in  honour  bound  to  bring  it  on  again  if  I could. 
Honestly,  wasn’t  that  your  idea?  ” 

“ I certainly  thought  so,  and  think  so,”  Cuckoo 
admitted. 

“ Well,  Lady  Elizabeth  doesn’t  agree  with  you. 
She  is  going  to  be  married  to  Sam  Schwale,  old  Ber- 
mondsey’s eldest  son.  The  thing  has  been  an- 
nounced with  what  some  people  call  indecent  pre- 
cipitation, but  I can  forgive  the  indecency  of  it  in 
consideration  of  her  having  so  completely  made  an 

end  of  your  first  obstacle.  The  second  obstacle ” 

“Is  insurmountable;  you  know  it  is,  Fitz!  You 
think,  perhaps,  that  a girl  who  has  asked  a married 
man  to  run  away  with  her  can’t  have  much  pride, 
but  I assure  you  I have  enough  left  to  decline  mar- 
rying anybody  whose  relations  would,  very  naturally 
and  properly,  show  me  the  cold  shoulder.” 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


325 


“ That,  I am  glad  to  say,  doesn’t  apply  to  me,  for 
my  mother  and  my  sisters  are  ready  to  receive  you 
with  open  arms.  I was  to  tell  you  so  from  them,  and 
they  aren’t  the  sort  of  people  to  say  what  they  don’t 
mean.  Any  other  obstacle?” 

“ Only  the  one  which  you  will  find  mentioned  in 
my  letter  when  you  read  it.  I don’t  want  to  marry 
anybody;  I ask  nothing  better  than  to  remain  as 
I am.” 

The  two  young  people  were  leaning  over  the  rail 
of  the  landing  stage,  looking  down  at  the  clear  water 
which  broke  in  tiny  waves  against  the  wooden  piles 
beneath  them.  “ Cuckoo,”  said  Fitzroy,  edging  a 
little  nearer  to  her,  “ do  you  remember  that  after- 
noon in  the  Bois?  ” 

“Yes,  my  memory  extends  as  far  back  as  that. 
Well?  ” 

“ Well,  it  may  sound  a conceited  thing  to  say, 
but  I don’t  much  care  if  it  does.  I am  certain  that 
you  loved  me  then.”  , 

“Did  I?  I wonder  whether  your  memory  is 
good  enough  to  carry  you  back  to  a day  ever  so  long 
ago,  when  we  were  children  and  when  you  took  some 
trouble  to  explain  to  me  that  loving  people  is  not  the 
same  thing  as  being  in  love  with  them.” 

“I  recollect  the  incident  perfectly,  and  what’s 
more,  I believe,  though  I won’t  absolutely  swear, 
that  I was  in  love  with  you  at  the  time.  Why  do 
you  hark  back  to  it?  ” 

“ Because  I should  like  to  make  you  understand 
that  even  if  I do  love  you,  there  is  somebody  else 
whom  I should  be  a monster  of  ingratitude  if  I 


326 


THE  WIDOWER. 


didn’t  love  more.  You  know  what  he  has  given  up 
for  me;  you  know — or  perhaps  you  don’t  know,  for 
I have  only  just  found  it  out — that  I am  all  he  really 
cares  for  in  the  world.  Is  he  to  resign  all  that  he 
has  resigned  only  to  be  left  in  the  lurch  now  for  his 
pains?  ” 

“ But  of  course  he  will  live  with  us,”  said  Fitz- 
roy  cheerfully. 

“ In  his  own  house,  do  you  mean?  You  think 
we  might  really  be  so  unselfish  as  to  grant  him  that 
privilege.  0 Fitz,  don’t  you  see  that,  selfish  as  I 
have  been — and  few  people,  I should  think,  can  hold 
a candle' to  me  in  that  respect — I should  eclipse  my 
own  record  by  marrying  you?  The  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is  that  I care  too  much  for  you  and  too 
much  for  him  to  be  guilty  of  that  crowning  atrocity.” 

Selfishness  is  an  ugly  quality  in  the  old;  it  is  a 
good  deal  less  unbecoming  to  the  young,  who  in  truth 
must  needs  display  it  to  some  extent,  unless  they 
wish  to  figure  as  abnormal  specimens  of  the  race — 
which  is  an  unbecoming  and  provoking  attitude  for 
anybody  to  assume.  About  an  hour  later,  Fitzroy 
and  Cuckoo  came  in  to  cast  themselves  upon  the 
mercy  of  the  patient  James,  who  knew  what  they 
were  going  to  say  before  they  said  it. 

“ You  are  about,”  he  remarked,  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  a word  in,  “ to  do  precisely  what  everybody 
who  has  taken  an  interest  in  you,  jointly  and  sever- 
ally, has  wanted  you  to  do  all  along;  apologies,  there- 
fore, seem  to  be  rather  out  of  place.  You  state  that 
you  are  prepared  to  treat  unavoidable  gossip  with 
contempt,  so  we  won’t  breathe  another  word  about 


AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 


327 


that  aspect  of  the  affair.  As  for  me,  I beg  you  to 
believe  that,  between  you,  you  have  removed  a great 
load  of  anxiety  from  my  mind.  I may  now  fairly 
look  forward  to  an  old  age  of  peace  and  happiness.” 

He  did  not,  being  a sensible  man,  look  forward 
to  sharing  the  home — Abbotswell,  most  likely — 
which  was  destined  to  receive  the  young  couple;  he 
was  fain  to  say  to  himself,  as  he  had  said  on  a former 
occasion,  “ 6 Thou  hast  been,  shalt  be,  art  alone/  ” 
But  he  knew — and  if  he  had  not  known,  Harry 
Carew  and  others  could  have  informed  him — that 
worse  fates  than  that  are  quite  easily  conceivable. 


THE  END. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3 9031 


543S14 


PR 

5112 

.N45 

W5 


NORRIS 


Bapst  Library 

Boston  College 
Chestnut  Hill,  Mass.  02167 


